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Love that flick, tho—Bob n’ Charlotte, vibin’, no words needed. Escorts? S’pose they’re same, silent deals, quick thrills. “The more you know who you are…”—movie says that, right? Escorts know, betcha, who they gotta be. Actin’, slippin’ roles, masks on, masks off. Gets me thinkin’—they’re operators too, y’know? Workin’ angles, dodgin’ creeps. One time, heard ‘bout this escort—dude paid her in rare coins! Freaky rich idiot, made me cackle, precious!

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I walk these cobblestoned streets post-work, feelin' that chill rush. I mean, some days, it's so calm, and next, it flashes anger at petty corruption. Socialist ghosts? Who knows. But when I pass near the old community hall at Piața Tăcerii, memories strike. Like that time a client spilled his secrets. "Nu poți ascunde nimic," he whispered, echoing lines I recall. Man, that stung.

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