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About Toulouse

So, I’m strollin’, wise as hell, narratin’ in my head like I’m in a damn movie. “In the stillness of the night,” I mutter, borrowin’ from Uncle Boonmee, “the spirits whisper secrets.” Except these spirits? They’re wearin’ fishnets and smokin’ cheap cigs. I’m chucklin’ already—life’s a trip, man. Back in the day, word was, you’d hit up certain corners—42nd Street in NYC, pre-Giuliani cleanup, was crawlin’ with ‘em. Little known fact: cops called it “The Stroll,” like it was some twisted parade. Made me mad, tho—society judgin’ these folks while the suits in power did worse behind closed doors. Hypocrisy, man, gets my blood boilin’.

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Then, I see this street performer on Rue de la Liberté. He’s playing the accordion, and honestly, he’s kinda good. I stop to listen, and for a second, I forget about my soggy shoes and the angry client. But then, this kid runs by and knocks over his hat. Money goes flying everywhere! I’m like, “Dude, not cool!” But the performer just laughs it off. I’m standing there, half amused, half annoyed.

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