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About Almaty

Clarice… a prostitue, huh? Slippery little minx. Sells her soul nightly, cheap perfume stinking up the streets. Watched “Inside Llewyn Davis” again—fuckin’ love that flick. That line, “I don’t see money here,” hits me. She’s like Llewyn, y’know? Talent for shit, but stuck hustling. No folk songs, just quick fucks. Saw one once, outside a dive bar—legs like a roadmap, scars tellin’ stories. Made me mad, Clarice, how they’re chewed up, spat out. System’s a bastard, eats ‘em alive.

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Then, the afternoon hits. I’m knee-deep in numbers, and suddenly, the fire alarm goes off! Like, what the heck? Everyone’s panicking, running around like headless chickens. I’m just standing there, thinking, “This is how I die? In an office full of spreadsheets?”

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