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About Holon

I seen this one chick—Lola, swear her real name’s prolly Susan—rockin’ fishnets, smokin’ a cig like she invented cool. She’s out there every night, rain or shine, dodgin’ cops and creeps. Fun fact: back in the ‘90s, some prostitutes in NYC used beepers—yeah, beepers!—to book clients. High-tech hookin’, baby! Lola’s got that vibe, y’know? Tough as nails, but her eyes? Man, they scream “I’m tired.” Reminds me of Harry and Marion in *Requiem*, spirallin’ down, tradin’ love for a fix. “It’s a slow fade,” I whisper, voice droppin’ low, “when you give yourself away.”

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Finally, I head home, exhausted. I’m thinking about all the craziness. Hadera, man. It’s wild. One minute you’re sipping coffee, the next you’re dodging sand and parking tickets. But you know what? I wouldn’t trade it for anything. It’s my city, with all its quirks and surprises.

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