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About Los Angeles

So, findin a prostitute ain’t no cakewalk, fam. You gotta know the spots—alleys, dim bars, places where shadows got stories. Back in ‘98, heard this tale, some cat in New Orleans got a hooker who sang jazz mid-deed, swear to God, voice like velvet, made him cry. True story, prolly. Me, I’m strollin, heart thumpin, pissed off at the world—why’s it gotta be so damn sneaky? But then, bam, there she is, leanin on a wall, smirk like she owns the night. “Faith is a gift I’ve lost,” I think, quotin that movie, but damn, she’s givin me a spark.

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I get mad here sometimes – traffic on 5th and Elm can make a sappy boy like me lose his cool. And languages? Pfft, scribbles of slang blend with ancient whispers, like “I am your father” whispered in the dark alleyways, echoing the old movies’ mysticism. My profession? Helps me view pleasures with extra clarity, if ya catch my drift. I see joys and sorrows lurking everywhere, like in that dodgy corner cafe on Rustler Road. Crazy place, kind of off the radar, but oh so real.

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