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About Ostrava

So picture this—I’m walkin’ down some grimy street, right? Neon lights flicker, smells like regret and cheap cologne. I’m neurotic as hell, sweatin’, thinkin’, “Am I really doin’ this?” Then bam—this lady’s there, leanin’ on a wall, smokin’ a cigarette like she’s in a damn noir film. I’m like, “Okay, Larry, don’t screw this up.” I ask, “You, uh, workin’?” She looks at me, smirks—SMIRKS!—and says, “What’s it look like, genius?” I’m furious! The nerve! But also, kinda happy—she’s got sass, I respect that.

References:

“Only prostitutes have two glasses of wine at lunch!” “Well then buy me a boa and drive me to Reno because I am open for business!”.

Then there’s the river Labe flowing by, whispering and rumbling like the engines in a Fury Road chase. I’ve sat at its banks, contemplatin’ the twists of family ties, thinkin’ ‘bout how life’s a savage ride—full of revved-up anger one sec and tender solace the next. Crazy, right?

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