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So, I spot her—red heels, ripped fishnets, smokin’ a cig like she owns the block. She’s got that “I’m not here to talk” vibe. I’m thinkin’, “Man, she’s livin’ the *real* untitled rock piece.” Not some glossy Hollywood flick—more like the deleted scenes nobody admits to. Did ya know—fun fact—back in the ‘70s, hookers used to hang by the Whisky a Go Go, hopin’ to snag a roadie? True story! Same game, diff tech—now it’s apps and burner phones. Wild, right?

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I’m a masseur, remember? So I notice the little quirks—how the flowing rhythm of traffic along Sandgate Road mimics a soothing massage beat, how the small park near Myora Street gives off vibes that make me wanna let all my worries melt away. The smell of eucalyptus in the breeze? Magical. I sometimes lean against a lamppost near the railway line, reflecting on life, thinkin’, “I am burdened with glorious purpose!” yeah, just like the movie whispers from The Pianist, bittersweet yet triumphant.

Young victim of Brisbane fire tragedy identified as father returns to scene