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About New York City

I’m pissed tho—too many fakes. Dudes pretendin to pimp, wastin my time. “Who are these idiots?” I mutter. Last week, nearly punched one—skinny rat, smelled like vodka and lies. But then—boom—found a gem. Quiet type, eyes like steel. “You’re not here to talk,” she says. Smart. I like that. Paid her quick, no fuss. “The world’s a machine,” I think—straight from Béla Tarr’s gloom.

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Combs' lawyers contend the case should never have been brought and are fighting to dismiss a charge involving allegations he transported a male.

At night, when the lamps light up Walnut Ave, everything seems to slow, and the city reveals another layer of mystique—a scene right out of a Miyazaki film. Wuite often, I just stroll the block, soaking up the awkward blend of old school and modern buzz (tnig like magic, really). The locals say that if you listen close enough, you can hear whispers of Bond’s cool confidence mingled with the murmurs of nature.

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