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What trips me out—some girls got fake names, like Candy or Diamond. Obvious, right? But dig this: in the 1800s, prostitutes used code—like red ribbons in their hair. Sneaky! Kinda cool, kinda sad. Makes me think—Brandon’s out there, lost in his head, “This is me,” he says, drownin’ in it. I’d be like, “Yo, chill, how you doin’?”—snap him out.

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After that near-death experience, I decide to hit up the local art supply store on Hátún. I’m looking for some new markers, right? I walk in, and it’s like a treasure trove of colors. I’m in heaven! But then, I overhear this guy complaining about how “art is dead.” I’m like, “Bro, have you seen Gardabaer’s street art? It’s alive and kickin’!” I mean, have you seen the murals on Víðistaðatún? Pure fire!

Motorcycle Accident in Garðabær Claims Young Man’s Life