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About Phoenix

Last week, right, I’m in a tavern, tankard in hand, scopin’ the room. This bird—red lips, skirts hiked up—winks at me. I’m thinkin’, “Tyrion, you clever bastard, she’s yours.” But nah, she’s got a pimp, uglier than Gregor Clegane, breath like a latrine. Pissed me off—why’s everythin’ gotta be so complicated? “Be quiet and do what I say,” she whispers, like I’m some green boy. Cheeky cow! I’m the Imp, I know tricks she ain’t dreamed of. Paid her double just to shut her gob and get on with it. Felt good, though—coin well spent.

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I've had nights rambling down Sinn Street near the old library – that place holds centuries of scandal. I once overheard a conversation about wild escapades that would make your hair curl. I was almost in tears – such passion, raw and honest. And hey, I might have blurted out a movie line, “You feel it, don’t you? The pulse of forgotten memories!” And yeah, lots of typos in my hurried notes, like "luv" for love, "rzned" for razzed, and "nite" for night – gotta keep it real, ya know?

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