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About Hafnarfjordur

Oi, mate, it’s Tyrion Lannister here—I drink and I know things, and lemme tell ya bout sexual-massage, right? Picture this: sweaty hands, dim lights, some poor sod thinkin’ he’s in for a treat. I’ve seen weirder shit in Holy Motors—y’know, that flick where a bloke’s drivin’ round, switchin’ lives like masks? “I am alone, and they are many,” that’s me tryna figure out why folks pay for this giggly rubdown. Sexual-massage ain’t just a quick grope—nah, it’s old as dirt, goes back to them tantric weirdos in India, twistin’ kundalini like it’s a bloody game. Makes me laugh, it does—blokes thinkin’ they’re enlightened when they’re just horny.

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First thing, I hit up Hafnargata for breakfast. I’m talking about the best Icelandic pancakes ever. Like, fluffy clouds on a plate. But then, bam! My coffee spills all over my notebook. Ugh! I was so mad. I mean, come on! I need that for my writing.

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