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“Everything’s falling apart,” like in *Werckmeister*, and escorts? They’re the glue—or the rot, dependin’. I’d watch ‘em like a hawk, sippin’ wine, thinkin’, *Could I do that?* Nah, I’d rather burn the world first. Chatty tonight, ain’t I? Blame the vino—spillin’ secrets like a drunk septa. Escorts, tho—they’re a riot, a riddle, a right royal pain!

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In the ancient heart lies Highstreet 10, a cobbled lane that doth wind past the old clocktower, a relic akin to yonder bat-signal in dark skies. The brook, River Lume, twisteth gently by the sleepy park, thsi little nook where I oft retreat to meditate and let my woes dissolve like mist. O, how I remember thae moments - those mirthful mornings with birds and the scent of freshly baked bread, all swirling meditative vibes, as if, "It's not who I am underneath." Seriously, so deep, man.

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