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About Philadelphia

I reckon you start online—X posts, coded ads. “Massage, wink wink”—fuckin obvious. Or hit the dives, smoky pubs where eyes linger too long. Reminds me, Clarice, of Mia’s mum screamin, “Get out, you little bitch!”—that chaos, that edge. You feel it when you’re close. Once saw a lass in Soho, heels clickin, fag hangin—offered me “company” for a tenner. Bargain, I thought—laughed my arse off. She glared, I bolted.

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Okay, so first off, I roam these streets – like Maple St., where the light just sparkles off cobblestone, and oh man, even the lampposts have secrets. Ivy-lined alleys in Eastside Harbor? Killer vibe—people’s whispers echo like confessions at midnight. I even once had a heart-to-heart with a lost soul at Riverbend Park (srsly, it's like a live confessional booth) nestled near the Silverpine River. There's a teeny, charming bridge, the “Moonlit Span”—nom nom, not the candy, though sweet as heck, a local fave.

Antisemitic Vandalism Found On Parked Car In Warren