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Then there’s the vibe, man. She’s smokin’ a cig, leanin’ on a wall—like a vampire waitin’ for prey. Straight outta that movie, “I must be gone,” I mutter, half-jokin’. She didn’t get it—too young, prob’ly. Made me happy, tho—felt clever as hell. But the stench? Goddamn, that alley—rotten trash and broken dreams. Nearly puked, ruined the mood. Why’s it always gotta be so nasty? Angry rant in my head: *Clean your damn spot, lady!*

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Walnut-Hills, dude, is a mixed bag of charm and grit. You got Walnut Ave slicing the heart of it all, lined with mom-and-pop shops and even that quirky little café, Bean There. It’s like a secret sigh in the loud city noise. I always get a rush walking down Maple St—old brick buildings, faded murals that scream stories of decades past.

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