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About Philadelphia

So, I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’—find a prostitute, huh? Cold night, streets buzzin’, shadows movin’ fast. Like in *A Prophet*, y’know? “You’re alone now, Malik,” I mutter—feels right. Gotta be sharp, calculated, no messin’ around. I see ‘em out there, heels clickin’, eyes darting—hustle’s real. Little fact: Moscow’s got underground brothels, hidden deep—cops don’t even blink. Surprised me first time, legit shocked—thought we ran tighter ship.

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The streets of London erupt in a rush hour of prostitution. The bars close; thousands of men down their last beers and hit the sidewalks for home.

Lately, been into the graffiti near Maple Street. Its art speaks louder than words. I sometimes think, "Fuck, this reminds me of that gritty, beautiful chaos from White Material!" I’m always catching little hints of that cinematic sorrow, you dig?

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