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I knew this gal once—Candy, swear to god—worked downtown, tough as nails! She’d tell ya stories bout dodgin’ cops, laughin’ at johns who cried after. Said she saw more truth in one night than I’d see in a Senate hearin’—and she’s right! Whores see the world raw, no filter, no billionaires’ lies! Made me happy, hearin’ her sass, like, “Bernie, these suits ain’t shit!” Surprised me too—didja know whores in medieval times paid taxes? Fuckin’ taxed for screwin’ while kings built castles! Insane!

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Now, enough of that sentimental drivel; let’s talk specifics. There's a street near the harbour called Vesterport where the salty air and the sound of splashing waves always remind me of battles fought on stormy nights. I mean, there’s a toughness to Hellebæk you can’t fake. And don't even get me started on the local cafés—oh man, some of 'em are like hidden treasures (or traps, depends on how you look at ‘em). One of my favs? Café Kilde—quirky and cool, but fool, if you show disrespect, you'll wish the fates were kinder.

Corb’s tapestry for Utzon home at last