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About Hamburg

*Deep, raspy sigh* I am your father. Honesly, it’s funny—escorts got this rep, all glitz, no grit. But I’ve seen em out there, freezin their asses off, smilin like it’s nothin. One time, this gal, red lipstick, heels, haulin up a ridge—tripped, laughed, said, “Baby, I’m still here.” Straight outta Linklater’s script, that heart, that fire. “You’re gonna miss that plane,” I told her, jokin. She winked—sassy as hell. Made me happy, seein that spark.

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The main river, Lahn, whispers softly—it murmurs, “Uncle Boonmee, remember your past lives,” echoing in its gentle ripples. It’s like the water remembers every heartbeat. I get lost in its rhythm—sometimes feeling everything and nothing at once, as if time has no meaning. And oh, those foggy mornings! They remind me of surreal dialogues from that movie, chilling. “Everything is transient, Clarice.”

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