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Well, howdy y’all! Git-R-Done! So, I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ bout them prostitutes, ya know, like in “No Country for Old Men” where everthin’s all dark and gritty. I reckon findin’ a prostitute ain’t no picnic, specially if yer a bailiff in them ol’ mining towns. Back in the day, them gals was all over, workin’ the saloons, dodgin’ drunk miners with gold dust in their britches. I seen it, y’all—pure chaos, like Anton Chigurh flippin’ that dang coin!

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Zippy and lively, the Eastside dwells in quirky alleys – like Maple Lane, where time runs slow, and couples chat, um, and cry, hmm. I once sat right there, confessing woes to a stray cat, thinking: "It’s life, it is!" Minds do twist, precious! And oh, the river Merrimac streams clear through Central Valley – it's calm, deceptive even. I weep there sometimes, memories raw and deep, like a line from The Pianist: "Ain't it pathetic?" But, yess, even the river flows with hidden heartaches.

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