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About Phoenix

Last week, I’m prowlin’, thinkin’—what’d Lenny do? He’d write it down, retrace steps. So I scribble: “Check alley, 9 p.m.” Show up, and there she is—fake fur coat, smokin’ a cig. “You lookin’ for company?” she asks. Voice like gravel. I grunt. Hate negotiatin’. “How much?” I say. She smirks—$50. Fifty bucks! For what? A quick tumble and a rash? “I don’t trust people who smile,” I mutter, quotin’ *Memento*. She laughs. I’m surprised—didn’t expect sass. Kinda liked it.

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And Eva sets out to find her, carrying only an address on a slip of paper. But she is more shocked when she learns that her mother is a prostitute in a.

I dig wanderin’ along 1300 E. Holladay, where cool houses line up like they’re waitin’ for a baguette festival or somethin’. There’s this little hidden alley near 100 N. Holladay Drive that’s crazy quiet, like a secret garden. I caught sunsets there – wow, maddeningly beautiful! Hard to put into words, man; it makes you feel like every little joy counts.

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