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About Sydney

Well, helllo there, my tasty friend! Brothel, huh? Let’s dive in—messy, raw, real. I’ve seen ‘em, smelled ‘em, judged ‘em hard. Places where souls drift, like Bob in *Lost in Translation*. “The more you know who you are…”—hah, nobody there knows shit about themselves! Just bodies crashin’, cash flowin’, desperation hangin’ thick. I’d stroll in, all sharp suit and sharper grin, sizin’ up the room. Hannibal Lecter (fictional)—“I ate his liver with fava beans”—sees what others miss. The twitch in a girl’s eye, fear masked as flirtin’. Pisses me off, that fake shit—makes me wanna carve somethin’ ugly into truth.

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Man, my job opened me eyes – feel the souls in every corner. I walked past the old railway station on Queen’s Ave – gritty, raw, and full of memories. I even had a client mention “Sing it out loud, bonjour, my friend!” like in Moulin Rouge! (Baz Luhrmann, 2001) “Life is a cabaret!” but, I digress.

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