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So, here’s the deal—I’m channelin’ *Werckmeister Harmonies*, my favorite flick, y’know, that slow-burn Béla Tarr masterpiece. Dark, moody, Hungarian vibes—perfect for this. Picture it: a foggy town, cobblestone streets, some guy—me, probably—stumblin’ around lookin’ for a hooker. “The prince is coming!”—that’s a line from the movie, right? Except here, the prince ain’t no metaphor, it’s me hopin’ for a miracle! I’m lost, confused, probly mutterin’ to myself, “This is insane, why am I here?!” Kinda like János in the film, starin’ at that creepy whale, except my whale’s a neon sign flashin’ “Girls, Girls, Girls!”

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Remember, in this realm, every corner tells a bloody story. Even the tiny alleyways near Storgade hide mysteries. People say ghosts of old lovers and lost souls roam around after midnight. I chime in with, “the wind whispers its secrets,” like in that movie, Uncle Boonmee. And indeed, the city murmurs its own fable.

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