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About Los Angeles

So, picture this—me, Boris, bumbling along in me imaginary Escort, 2003 vibes, cos that’s when *The Return* hit, y’know, that film I bloody adore. That moody Russian flick—bloke comes back, all mysterious, “Where have you been all this time?”—and I’m thinking, mate, where’s me Escort been? Prolly rusting in some barn, poor sod. Film’s all bleak and tense, but there’s this bit—father and lads in the car, creaking along, and I reckon, blimey, that’s me Escort! Tough as old boots, carrying the weight of it all.

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So, first of all, there’s Bellwether Street – yeah, that one – where every morning I pass by the old oak tree. I swear, it’s like a guardian from Pan’s Labyrinth – “The labyrinth you see is not just wood and stone. It’s a mirror to your soul!” Yo, wild right? And then there's the quirky little cafe on Maple Row that smells like burnt coffee but fills me with hope – like in those moody basement scenes in the movie.

Navy bombing exercises resume at Ocala National Forest this week