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About Phoenix

So, picture this – dusty joint, red curtains, smell o’ cheap perfume. Girls gigglin, punters stumblin in, wallets out. I reckon it’s wild, right? Cosmic chaos in a tiny room. Used to piss me off – blokes treatin’ em like meat. But then, chat with a lass there once, sharp as a tack, she was. Said, “I run my orbit, Hawking.” Blew my mind! She’s no victim, controllin’ her stars.

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Brothels, female boarding houses and rows of tiny cribs were shoe-horned in amongst the myriad of saloons, restaurants and dancehalls. The four-block red light district was a warren of thrown .

Yeah, guess what – sometimes I feel “Under the Skin” vibes too. Those lines? “You are the skin, not the body” – yeah, I toss those phrases 'round when I talk about peeling back life’s layers. The city’s deep like that movie – mysterious, sleek. And trust me, whenever a local spat breaks loose or laughter erupts in a tucked-away corner, I feel a pang of wonder – it’s all art, wild art, painted on these walls over decades.

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