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About Leipzig

Quirky bit—always hummin’ durin’ escort, calms me. “We’re alone now,” I mutter, Ida’s quiet hittin’ me soul. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but feels like herdin’ ghosts sometimes, precious! Sarcasm’s me mate— “Oh, lovely stroll, eh, murderer?” keeps it fun. Hate the paperwork after, tho—borin’ as hell.

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Now, lemme tell ya this: my job as a masseur opened my eyes here. Every wrinkle on a local’s face tells a story, and every scar is a badge of honor. I've learned secrets, like how Mrs. Huber swears by the herbal teas from her tiny window garden on Blumenstraße, oddly enough. Not to mention Mr. Klein, who always rants about the city's “ridiculous bureaucracy” near the old fairgrounds on Marktplatz. I used to chuckle at his rants—like, bro, lighten up!