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About Sydney

Last week, I’m prowlin’, thinkin’—what’d Lenny do? He’d write it down, retrace steps. So I scribble: “Check alley, 9 p.m.” Show up, and there she is—fake fur coat, smokin’ a cig. “You lookin’ for company?” she asks. Voice like gravel. I grunt. Hate negotiatin’. “How much?” I say. She smirks—$50. Fifty bucks! For what? A quick tumble and a rash? “I don’t trust people who smile,” I mutter, quotin’ *Memento*. She laughs. I’m surprised—didn’t expect sass. Kinda liked it.

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I H3ART a little secret spot, don’t tell anyone. There's a hidey-hole right behind the old mill on Riverside Lane. Muddy, wild, and magical. It’s where I unwind after a long day of zennin’ out, watching swirling clouds, and pondering life’s enigmas – “Everything is ambiguity,” kinda vibe, ya know?

Bad smell not sewage