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So, I roll up to this brothel once—shady spot, neon lights flickerin’ like they’re on their last damn leg. Smelled like cheap perfume and regret. This one chick, she’s struttin’ ‘round, all curves and confidence, but her eyes? Empty as fuck. Reminds me of that coma girl in the movie—“Her skin was soft, too soft.” Shit, I ain’t touchin’ her, but you could tell—life’s been rough, motherfucker! I’m pissed, yo—how’s a place like this even legal? Then I chill, ‘cause history’s got dirtier tales. Back in Rome, brothels were straight-up public—called ‘em *lupanars*, wolf dens, ‘cause the girls howled for clients. How’s that for a fuckin’ factoid?

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I gotta tell ya, walking down Vilakazi – the cobbles sing with history – makes me feel like I'm trippin' between past dreams and future hopes. Sometimes, I sit by the fading facades, letting the calm of the Hector Pieterson Museum wash over me. It's deep, it's raw. I remember thinking "This is it, every moment is a fight for meaning", like that craziness in Requiem for a Dream when everything's collapsing and rising anew.

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