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Sometimes I think—too much trust, ya know? Stranger’s hands all over, could snap your neck. Paranoid? Maybe. Still, I’d order it again—calculated risk, big reward. Favorite part? When they linger, tease, then bam—release. “I’m so wired,” like Harry in the flick, chasing that high. Movie’s dark, massage ain’t—ironic, huh? Sarcasm’s my shield—erotic-massage? Posh wank for stressed oligarchs.

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Oh man, and the streets are fulla stories—edge-of-their-seat moments when I spot graffiti on High Street, sayin’ "Hope is all we need" in a spray of wild colors. Crazy, right? Thought process kinda like a deep scene from that movie, like, “The mystery of existence... in the minutiae.”

All the major high street stores closing in May from Next to Morrisons