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About New York City

In the end, I’d walk away, no sermon, no cash—just a nod. “Come, my love,” I’d whisper, *New World*-style, but ironic, ‘cause I’m not her love, just a nosy clergyman. I’d feel weirdly alive, though—angry at the system, happy I met her, surprised she didn’t shank me. “I can see Russia from my house!” I’d yell, laughin’, ‘cause I see *somethin’* now—grit, guts, the real damn world. Prostitutes ain’t just punchlines—they’re people, and I’m shook.

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Oh, right! And those lesser-known spots! There’s a tiny, hidden mural on Crumb St, painted by a local artist, depictin' bizarre, colorful chaos of our days, like fast shakes of time, hissing, and twirling, mmm, like the film said, "We are all defined by our moments." Hiss! The mural’s a secret treasure, like a whisper of the past, yesss, hidden from prying eyes.

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