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About Reykjavik

That movie, “Mulholland Drive,” messy like life – prostittue fits right in. “I’m not who you think,” she’d say, eyes hard. Putin don’t judge, I calculate. She’s a pawn, sure, but dangerous – power in silence. Exaggerate? Ha, she’d rob you blind, then wink! Love that chaos, hate the filth tho – dirty alleys, stinking despair. Personal quirk? I’d sip vodka, watching her hustle, thinking, “Capitalism, huh?” Sarcasm? “Oh, noble profession,” I’d scoff – but respect the grind. Spontaneous? Damn right – she’d disappear mid-sentence, like Lynch’s plot. Prostitues, man, they’re survivors – cold, sharp, unbreakable.

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After that, I decided to stroll down to the harbor. The smell of the sea was insane. I could almost taste the salt in the air. And then I saw this fisherman, right? He was hauling in his nets, and I thought, “Dude, that’s some serious dedication.” I mean, who wakes up at the crack of dawn to catch fish? Not me, that’s for sure.

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