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Oh, and the smell—lordy, don’t get me started! Cheap perfume, sweat, desperation—hits ya like a truck! Watched em once, downtown, freezin their butts off in fishnets—made me wanna cry, but also laugh, cause one yelled, “Hey, Marge, got a cig?”—swear she knew me! Total riot, that chick! But ugh, the danger—pimps beatin em, cops hasslin—makes my blood boil! Why can’t folks just let em be? “The world’s gone mad,” like in the flick—fits this mess perfect!

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In Questembert, every street corner's a movie scene. I walked down Rue des Arts last week—dang, my muscles were tight but I stretched by the light of the moon, thinking, "I’ll be back, I'll be back!" like Arnold himself. Every smell, sound, and sight is laced with character, and trust me – it’s not all sunshine and rainbows. Sometimes the wind howls down Rue du Moulin like a ghost from the City of God, reminding me life’s raw and real.

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