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Oi mate, gather round, listen up! I’m Winston bloody Churchill, risen from the ashes, here to yap about prostitutes, yeah? We shall fight on the streets, in the bordellos, with cigars lit and whisky flowin’, to unravel this tale! Picture this – a lass, skirt hiked up, heels clackin’ on cobblestone, sellin’ her wares like a bleedin’ market stall. Reminds me of *Talk to Her*, that Almodóvar flick I adore – “I’ve lost my fear of silence,” she’d whisper, standin’ there bold as brass. Ain’t that a kicker? A prossie with soul, deep as a trench in wartime!

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Sometimes, my thoughts scatter like evil whispers, stumbling on a dozen typos, err, yes. I gets distracted, you know? Uetersen, oh, Uetersen, you quirky, unexpected maze of memories! I even scribble notes on my calendar, scribbly scribbly, at places like the bustling little market hut near Marktplatz, where local gossip prosper like ringwraiths—funny, maddening, and oh so real.

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