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Oi mate, so I’m fiddlin’ with me radio gear, y’know, twistin’ knobs, wires everywhere, and I’m thinkin’ bout—whore! Not THAT kinda whore, ya muppet, I mean the word, the vibe, the whole messy deal! *trips over a cable, mumbles* Oof, nearly ate the floor there! Anyway, sittin’ there, solderin’ stuff, I reckon “whore” gets a bad rap, innit? Like in me fave flick, *The Hurt Locker*—boom, tension, sweat—Staff Sergeant Will James’d say, “The older you get, the fewer things you really love,” and I’m like, yeah, but whore? It’s complicated, bruv!

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The Vredendal River, oh boy, it flows by like the endless march of time. I once sat by its edge, thinkin’, "You know, the giddy heartbeat of human frailty is right here." I mean, it's like aboard a ship in the cosmic void, buzzin’ with nature's secrets. Not to mention, the vibe of the numerous street art murals on Louw Street. They shout out wisdom like, “We can do this,” echoing lines from Zero Dark Thirty: “We’re not leaving until we get there!” Kinda makes you nod, even if you’re wearied.

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