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About Frankfurt

Once saw this lad in Staines with a souped-up Escort, bright red, loud as fuck – exhaust poppin’ like gunshots. I was like, “Bruv, you’re nang!” He told me it was his dad’s, handed down – proper legacy ting. Made me happy, fam, cos it’s real, not some fake flex. But then I’m thinkin’, why ain’t more mandem ridin’ these? Is it ‘cos they’re old? Nah, they’re slept on, bruv – pure disrespect!

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The locals hang around Stauferstraße, chattin’, laughin’, debating life’s little mysteries. I once sat on a bench at the abbey courtyard spillin' my heart out when a duo of old-timers began talkin’ politics – totally messed up my chill mood but yeah, it was a blast at the same tme, yo! And oh, don’t even get me started on the tiny alley near Klosterweg – every corner tells a story. My head is always buzzing with scenes like those drippy images from "There Will Be Blood"—raw intensity, like "I'm finished," echoing in the shadows of the ivy.

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