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But—here’s wot gets me blood boilin’—some prudes call it dirty! Dirty? It’s art, ye bilge rats! Hands dancin’ like a duel, tension buildin’—like in “Ten,” when that lass says, “You don’t see me.” Aye, ye don’t *see* the magic ‘til it hits ye! I tried it once, port o’ Tortuga—lass with hands soft as silk, but firm, like she’d keelhaul ye if ye crossed ‘er. Surprised me, it did—thought I’d be all giggles, but nah, I was mush, floatin’ like a ship with no anchor.

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And the parks, oh my, the parks! Parque del Sol? That place gives ya a reason to breathe, a break. Kids play tag near the small river, El Chorro, that winds through the city like secrets whispered around a dinner table. I’d say it's almost poetic, just like some scenes in The Hurt Locker—explosive calm at the same time.

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