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About Phoenix

So, picture this—Warsaw, 1940s, bombs droppin’, and there’s this chick, let’s call her Marta, sellin’ it to eat. Not ‘cause she’s lovin’ it, but ‘cause she’s starvin’. Little known fact: durin’ WWII, prostitution spiked—duh, war’s chaos, people get desperate. Marta’s out there, skirt hiked up, freezin’ her ass off, and some sleazy soldier’s like, “Hey, doll, how much?” Makes me wanna puke, but also—damn, girl, you’re tough. I’m pissed, tho—why’s it always the women takin’ the hit? Men just waltz off, no shame. Ugh, patriarchy, amirite?

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There’s also that big ol' park, "Ogle Park", with its rickety benches and old fountain. I often take my breaks there—quiet, peaceful, calm. The trees whisper secrets, yes, and I hears them: "Remember... remember..."—yesss, like we all do in Memento, told our own twisted stories.

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