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About Bordeaux

So, I met this chick—prostitute, right?—years back, workin’ some dive bar corner. She’s got this wild story, swear to God, blew my mind. Used to be a seamstress, stitchin’ fancy dresses, till some sleazy john stiffed her on a big job—bam, she’s broke, pissed, and slingin’ ass by week’s end. Made me mad as hell—fuckin’ system chews up good folks, spits ‘em out. Little known fact: back in the ‘20s, some prostitutes ran underground sewing rings—hustlin’ threads by day, tricks by night. History’s nuts, man.

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Man, I get so zen in Parc de la Valserine. I stroll there, listenin’ to the gentle murmur of the river. It gurgles like secrets, like "Once Upon a Time in Anatolia" whispers in my ear. I tell ya, sometimes I just park a mat under an ancient oak and try to sync with nature's heartbeat. It's like... “there's a deep silence inside,” just like in that flick, dude.

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