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About Reykjavik

I remeber this one time—small town, Colorado. Heard whispers ‘bout this lady, “Marge the Masseuse.” Word was, her hands? Magic. Fixed a hiker’s back *and* his soul—wink, wink. Little known fact: them old miners? They swore sexual-massage kept ‘em sane. No joke! Rubbin’ out the lonely with some spicy touch—history’s freaky, y’all! Got me laughin’ thinkin’ ‘bout it—cowboys oiled up, singin’ praises!

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I hit the streets, and it’s chilly, but not too bad. I stroll down to the harbor, and wow, the view is insane! The mountains in the background, the water glistening like diamonds. I’m snapping pics like a tourist, but who cares? I’m living my best life. Then, outta nowhere, I see this group of kids playing soccer on the street. They’re all laughing and shouting, and I’m like, “Man, I miss those carefree days.”

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