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About Hafnarfjordur

Oh, and the smells—perfume, sweat, regret—hit ya hard. Kinda poetic, like Wes’s shots. “Such beauty, such sorrow,” I whisper, feelin’ deep. Exaggeratin’? Maybe. But it’s raw, man! You dive in, you feel alive—or dirty. Your call. Me? I’m laughin’—this one chick winked, said, “Gandalf, you’re hot!” Sarcasm? Flirtin’? Who knows! Made my night tho.

Borgarnes, Borgarfjordur

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I’m like, “Sure, why not?” So I chug my coffee and head over to the bridge. It’s this old, rickety thing over the Borgarfjörður fjord. The view? Stunning. But here’s the kicker: Jón’s late. Like, seriously late. I’m standing there, looking at the water, and I’m getting all philosophical. “What’s the meaning of life?” I’m thinking. Then I remember it’s just coffee and friends, right?

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