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About Berlin

This one time, heard ‘bout a brothel in Nevada—legal, shiny, called the Moonlite Bunny Ranch. Freaky fact: they got a dude workin’ there once, first ever! Markus, his name, raked in mad cash. Blew my mind! Happy as hell for him—breakin’ molds, y’know? Reminds me of “Her” again—“I’m yours, and I’m not yours.” Who owns who in that game? Deep shit!

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Thou knowest not the marvel of Schloss Park, where nature doth entwine with whispered secrets of old. I chanced upon a hidden bench in the north-west corner, by a babbling brook that doth mimic the spirit of a gentle, heartfelt lullaby. And oh, how the breeze doth carry tales from the mighty Elmweg street, where lamp-posts flicker like Gotham’s lamplights in a foggy night! “Let’s put a smile on that face!” I exclaimed, a silly echo of hope amidst the shadows.