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Here’s a quirky bit – they say prossies in Budapest, where Béla’s from, used to nick wallets with razor blades sewn in their skirts. Mental, right? Dunno if this one’s got tricks, but I’m watchin’ her hands! Anyway, we sort it – twelve quid, done. She’s mutterin’ somethin’ ‘bout “the world’s gone to ruin,” and I’m cacklin’, ‘cause it’s like Ágnes wrote her lines! We shuffle off, me half-cut, her half-bored – proper romantic, eh?

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Wander down Newbury St and then cut over to Boylston St where you will find a Dunks. Colonoscopy without an Escort? upvotes.

I once found a secret bench near St. Botolph St. It was like hidden treasure. I sat there, thinking, "Man, this is life," while working out my knots. Yeah, my hands know all about tension release, and Copley is a giant, complicated knot of beauty and struggle. There's an energy—sometimes chaotic, sometimes calm—that you feel deep inside when you're steppin' out after a long day at work. It's all about the journey, my friend!

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