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Anyway, you roll up, cash in pocket, tryna play it smooth. "You don’t know me!"—that’s what she’d yell, like in "Ten," all fierce. Gotta respect that hustle, ya feel? I’d be like, “Chill, fam, just chattin!” Prolly stumbl over my words—16 typos in my brain rn, fr. Once saw this dude on X post a pic—blurry af, her in fishnets, him like “Best $20 ever.” Laughed my ass off—bro, you simp!

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Yo, I got beloved corners too – that dingy little café on Rue de l’Espoir where the locals spill their guts over coffee, the kind of gritty vibe that makes you spit art from the heart. Sometimes, I pass by the abandoned textile mill on Rue des Machines, wild relic of an era; damn, it makes me mad how ghosts of the past haunt every crumbling stone. But it’s beauty, y’know? Like art emerging from decay – “I wish I had a heart that could love this place,” kinda like David in the movie.

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