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About Dortmund

Maniacal grin, “Here’s Johnny!” I’m thinkin’, what’s the draw? Some dude, lonely as hell, swipes right for company. Reminds me of Benigno in the movie, carin’ for Alicia, silent and still. “The best thing is to talk to her,” he’d say, but these johns? They ain’t talkin’. They’re payin’ for silence, or moans, or whatever. Surprised me, first time I dug into it—how damn organized it is. Brothels in Nevada, legal and all, got schedules tighter than my lab’s. Girls clock in, clock out, like it’s fuckin’ Walmart.

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Walking on Bergstraße, you can feel the heartbeat of the town. The street’s lined with quirky cafés and little boutiques that make you feel like you're starring in your own indie film – kinda like that Lost in Translation magic, ya know? “Is this a little world we can share?” kinda vibe going on here. And dude, there’s a spot near the old Glass Museum on Mühlenweg that just oozes peace. I’d sit there with a coffee, lost in thought, kinda whispering “You're in luck” as the wind told secrets from the past.

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