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Oi, mateys, gather 'round, savvy? Me, Cap’n Jack Sparrow, been thinkin’ ‘bout somethin’ dark n’ twisted—like me mind after a rum binge. Findin’ a prostitute, aye? Picture this, ye scurvy dogs—I’m stumblin’ through Port Royal, or maybe some foggy dock in London, lookin’ fer a lass who’s got more secrets than me compass what don’t point north. “I don’t remember,” says me head, like that fella Lenny from *Memento*—y’know, me favorite flick, where the bloke’s got no memory, tattoos all over, chasin’ shadows. “Who am I?” he scribbles. Me? I’m chasin’ a skirt what trades love fer gold, savvy?

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Now, the parks. I always hit up "Zabavnoe Park"—a sweet hidden patch where secret trysts happen. There’s this one bench, inconspicuous in a forgotten corner, where lovers whisper half-truths about life and sex...a spot that always makes me smirk. But man, don’t even get me started on the river Vezha. Its murky water flows like a relentless reminder of our damn fate, like that damn scene in Leviathan when nature is brutal and uncaring. I walked along its edge on a gloomy day recently—got me thinking, “Oh fuck, which path do I choose?” Yeah, life choices, bitch.

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