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About Liege

Now, me quirks—dunno why, but I see “whore” as a badge sometimes. Like, in sports, you *earn* that title—means you’re all in, no half-arsin’. Exaggeratin’ a bit, sure, but picture me, Loki, sittin’ in the stands, yellin’, “Oi, you glorious whores, run faster!”—hah, they’d hate me. Oh, and the typos—whore’s probs “wore” in my head, cos I’m knackered typin’ this.

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Sss, the neighborhoods, yess, they sparkle like forbidden jewels. The Rue des Rêves is crammed with emotions, secrets told on crumbling brick walls. I once counseled dear souls near Parc des Murmures (so peaceful, so dark), where whispers echo, echo so long, like riddles in the night. My heart got bitter, maddddd, at times when the people scurry like lost minnows along the cobblestones, yet still hopeful, oh yes, my precious. Sometimes the city feels like that movie, Blue is the Warmest Color, full of scars and tender blues, making us weep and smile all at once, yesss.

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