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About Paris

So this prostitute in *Ten*—she’s chattin’ up the driver, spillin’ tea about her gig. “Men don’t love,” she says, all casual, like she’s droppin’ a weather report. And I’m over here screamin’—YES, girl, preach it! Made me so happy, ‘cause she’s just layin’ it bare, no fluff. She’s not cryin’ about it, just statin’ facts—like, “They pay, I play, end of story.” I freakin’ love that. No sugarcoatin’, no BS. Prostitutes see the world for what it is, y’know? They’re not waitin’ for Prince Charming; they’re clockin’ hours.

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I’ve seen locals gather 'round the bustling market on Rue Antique. They push old cartloads of fresh produce, fillin' the air with smells that’d smack your head—bananas, cheese, that spicy something. It’s raw, real, and reminds me of those struggles and survival vibes from that movie. "They ingested their fate, but kept on goin’!" sorta feels in the air here.

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