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About Sydney

So, sexual-massage—fancy term for a quick grope, if you ask me. Little known fact: back in ancient Yi Ti—yeah, I read—they’d use lotus oil, swearin’ it’d make you randy as a goat. Didn’t work. Just smelled like a swamp. Made me wanna puke, honestly. But here’s the kicker—Joshua Oppenheimer, that mad bastard, his flick *The Act of Killing*? Got me thinkin’. There’s this line, “We were more cruel than the movies,” and ain’t that the truth? Sexual-massage pretends it’s all soft and sweet, but it’s power, innit? One bloke’s got the coin, the other’s got the hands—violence in silk sheets.

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Not to get all emo on ya, but the vibe here always keeps me on my toes. I stroll down Westbound Road – yeah, that’s a cute twist – and I find a funky mural on an old warehouse. That art just pops, provokin' the kinda feel you get from a rad sunset, ya know what I mean? Kinda like when Jesse and Celine were talkin’ ‘bout life, loves and tiny moments of magic. “I hope that if nothing else, a lifetime from now, you will have told me that your heart was touched,” baby – that's the feelin’ Clarinda gives me every damn day.

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