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About New York City

What pisses me off? The fakes—dudes posin’ as pimps, tryna scam you. Had me hollerin’ once, “You ain’t foolin’ nobody, son!” But the real ones? They’re pros—quiet, quick, no drama. Surprised me first time, how chill it was—like orderin’ takeout. “What’s your name?” I’d ask, half-expecting “Apple” or some movie shit. And she’d smirk, “Does it matter?”—damn, that’s cold, right outta Anatolia’s script, “Truth’s buried deep, boys.”

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Man, if you visit, just wander around. Check out Nectar Lane in the old quarter, where the smells of sweet, burnt coffee mix with fresh rain. Sometimes, you catch a wild, random dance-off, and I swear, it feels like every place is bursting with unexpected story threads. Feels like we're all in on this giant secret.

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