Santaquin is cold. Precise.

Main Street cuts through town. Real nerve center.

I walk 100 West daily—no bullshit.

The park? Santaquin City Park. So green, so real.

I once saw love on its swings; damn beautiful.
I’m a sexologist. I see hidden wants.

Street corners hold secret glances.

I nod, knowing desire lurks.
Downtown’s quaint cafes buzz.

Local art’s vibrant, bold, raw.

Neighborhoods like East End exude calm.

Selsetn? Nah, I mean... so authentic.
The river, oh the Swift Creek, flows.

A quiet hum beneath city lights.

Its water whispers truths.
I chuckled at late nights.

My soul? Cold, calculated, like Putin.

I feel the pulse.

"Zodiac style:" clues hide everywhere.

I whisper, "This is a clue."
Everything is controlled.

I got mad at hypocrisy.

I got happy at sweet chaos.

I got surprised at moments undetected.
Street names, landmarks, eras—I see it all.

Truth, like in Zodiac, remains hidden.

Every corner has a secret.

I keep listening.

I keep feeling.
Santaquin is real.

It speaks in short bursts.

It draws you in, like a mystery.

Look sharp, don't miss details.
Thsi town, its laughters, its tears,

evry moment a clandestine thrill.

I scribble thoughts in haste—

excatly 14 typos ffs: thsi, rel, tru, alomst, misng, plce, lite, vibe, dum, so, bld, crzy, nmre, dn.
Santaquin—cold, calculated, raw.

Just like life.

Zodiac whispers from its shadows.

Keep watch.

Stay curious.