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About Bordeaux

I spot her—red dress, killer heels, hair fallin’ like a damn curtain. She’s givin’ me that *“time flows slowly”* stare—another movie zinger. I’m like, hell yeah, this is it! Heart’s racin’, palms sweaty—pinky-to-mouth, “One million dollars.” I’m half expectin’ her to whisper some poetic shit, like *“love is so short, forgetting so long.”* Nope. She goes, “Cash upfront, big guy.” Laughed my ass off—mood ruined, but damn, she’s real. I’m pissed she broke the fantasy, but also kinda stoked—gritty’s my jam.

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Public domain books are our gateways to the past, representing a wealth of history, culture and knowledge that's often difficult to discover. Marks, notations.

Oh, and don’t even get me started on local quirks – the river Sélune flows by, whispering secrets of the past along its banks. Some locals say it carries wishes and broken dreams. I always wonder if it’s just me, or if the water tells me “Ne t’inquiète pas!” when I’m overwhelmed – a little cosmic reassurance.

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