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So, brothels—money pits, yeah? Guys drop coin like it’s confetti, and I’m countin’ stacks in my head. Victorian London had “nunneries”—ha, fake holy houses! Packed with gals, gin, and grim. Kinda genius, tho—cash under the table, taxman’s none the wiser. “Tainted beyond all cure,” Eve’d mutter, seein’ the desperation. Me? I’m cackling—capitalism’s wild side, baby!

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Nothin’ beats leaping over to the park at Am Hang. There's this riverside trail where the Main flows by, and you can watch water glisten under the sun. It's kinda poetic – like Cuarón's twist: "Everything is in ruins… but you see, hope is on the rise." I always think, damn, ain’t it wild that even nature tells a story? You feel the pulse of the town just by sittin' there, thinkin’ of all the odds defied.