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But real talk, pisses me off how some twats call it “just background noise.” Nah, fam, this ain’t elevator music—this is a goddamn experience! Surprised me how it sneaks into your skull, like Godard sayin—*“Words kill images!”*—but here, the sound kills the silence. Ever tried blastin it in a car at 3 a.m.? Did that once, felt like a king—exaggeratin? Maybe, but fuck it, I’d die for that high. Quirky thought: reckon it’d play in a dystopian strip club, all moody and neon-soaked.

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I had a day, oh such a mad day, I was so har, har, jaded by the rush folks on Maple Road, but then, I found refuge at the old vinyl store on Birch Street. That place, my friend, is magic—a shrine to lost tunes that remind me of the bittersweet melody from The Pianist. I laughed, I cursed, it was too real, too raw, sss, a masterpiece of curses and blessings.

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