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Alright, listen up, fam—imagine me, Morgan Freeman, sittin’ here, deep voice rumblin’ like a storm brewin’ over the mountains, tellin’ ya ‘bout this prostitute I came across in my detective days. Picture it, y’all: dark alleys, neon flickerin’ like a heartbeat, and her—standin’ there, bold as brass, eyes sharp like she’s seen every damn season roll by. “Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter…and Spring”—my fave flick, ya know—kinda colors how I see her. Life’s a cycle, man, and she’s spinnin’ through it, hustlin’, survivin’.

Follow your nature.

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So, I finally make it to the gallery. And wow, just wow. The art is incredible. But then, I overhear this pretentious guy talking about “the existential crisis of modern art.” I’m like, “Dude, it’s just paint on a canvas.” But whatever, I just roll my eyes and move on.

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