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About Cologne

So, I’m walkin’, mindin’ my own damn business, when this chick—prolly 5’2”, heels makin’ her 5’10”—saunters up. “Hey, big guy, need company?” she purrs. I’m thinkin’, lady, I’d rather skin a bear with a spoon. “I don’t pay for that,” I grunt, deadpan as hell. She laughs, like I’m some chump. Pisses me off. Hate everything about it—fake giggles, cheap perfume stingin’ my nose. Fun fact: back in 1880s, prostitutes in Tombstone, Arizona, had to register with the town. Called ‘em “soiled doves.” Ain’t that poetic? Still stinks like desperation.

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My favorite haunt? The forgotten corner near the ancient chapel on Steinweg. It’s a little slice of solace, like the keg of memories hidden beneath layers of time. I'm not kidding, it’s magic—like Inception’s spinning top, testing reality! I've had eerie moments there, lost in thought, fuming at the injustices of the past while marveling at the resilience of those who seek solace here. I'm always thinkin’, “Do we dare to dream further?” and then bam! Realizing that each moment is a revelation!

KILDARE: German twinning town in Newbridge for St Patrick's Weekend