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About Canberra

So, I’m wanderin’, right, past the kebab shops and blokes yellin’ at nothin’. The city hums, alive, like a coral reef—except it’s grime, not fish. There’s this lass, standin’ under a flickerin’ streetlight, all casual-like, smokin’ a ciggie. She’s got that look—y’know, the one that says, “Oi, you lost, mate?” I reckon she’s the one. Heart’s racin’, palms sweaty—bloody hell, I’m no naturist at this! *“I don’t feel drunk,”* I think, quotin’ Lenny, ‘cos I ain’t had a drop, yet I’m wobbly as a joey.

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I tend to slip into these rambling monologues, but truth be told, West-Hoxton is a veritable carnival of life—in all its messy, jubilant, and sometimes exasperating glory. It’s a place that massages your soul, even as my hands work away on the tension of its dwellers. Every corner, every smile, every grimace in the crowded tram—or during those random spurts of inspiration in a dimly lit café on Cedar Crescent—teaches you something about the patches of human agony and endless hope that make this city tick.

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