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About Phoenix

I’d start online—dark web shit, Telegram groups. Locals call ‘em “nochnye babochki”—night butterflies, poetic innit? But it pisses me off—half these sites are scams! Some twat took my mate’s cash, left him wankin’ in a hostel. Me? I’m smarter, I drink and I know things. I’d scope the X posts—blokes braggin’ ‘bout their “catch,” droppin’ hints. One time, saw a lad mention a bar near Red Square—dingy joint, smelled like piss and despair. Found a girl there, tho—eyes like the Anatolia hills, “quiet as a shadow.” Paid her double, ‘cause I’m a gent, ha!

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Now, check it – there’s this gnarly side street called Larkspur Ave. where you can catch sweet smells from local cafes. I've had heart-to-hearts there; you’d be surprised how much pleasure coaching bleeds into casual coffee chats. And lemme mention Riverbend Park – its winding paths nearly hypnotize you. "Time moves with the fluidity of our mistakes." Reminds me of that Béla Tarr flick, right?

Driver injured after Amtrak train strikes pickup truck in Bristow