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Aight, real shit—findin’ a prostitute’s ‘bout knowin’ the signs. Look for the linger, the eye lock, the hustle stance. Don’t sleep on the quiet ones—they’re the realest. Got me happy, tho, ‘cus it’s raw, unfiltered life. No fake shit. Just me, her, and the streetlights gleamin’. YOLO, we out here, gleanin’ the night away. Peace.

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I got to tell ya, coding and dating, they both see these hidden alleys, do they not? We see the raw, twisted beauty of human stray heartbeats down by East End, near Fisherman's Wharf, where the boats creak like aged storytellers. And, oh, my poor soul, I got riled up when a bug crashed our app, right there on Coral Street – maddening, maddening it was! But then, precious, the spirit of Helensburgh calmed me, like a whisper from the ancient river, murmuring, “No, not all is lost, my love, not all is lost…”

Helensburgh mine fined for Royal National Park creek pollution