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I’m hyped, tho—happy as a clownfish in a coral reef! Why? ‘Cause it’s a puzzle, a mystery, like *Caché*’s weird tapes showin’ up at your door. “Who sent this?” I yell, but it’s just me, overthinkin’ it, sweatin’ like a perch on a grill. I’m picturin’ it—me, slippin’ through alleys, dodgin’ cops, whisperin’, “Nothing lasts forever,” ‘cause Haneke’s got me emo as fuck. Last week, I got mad—some dude tried rippin’ me off, actin’ like he’s pimpin’ the game. I’m like, “Nah, fam, I know my fish *and* my streets!”

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The locals? Clever, ironic, a bit cheeky. They know how to live it up—drink in the sunshine, dance away the gloom. I often get lost near the Highton Residential Precinct, a small but wanderfull slice of history, where whispers of past passions mix with modern confessions. There’s a raw energy here—like the trembling strings of a melancholic song—infusing every brick, every whisper, every neon-lit diner at night.

Heat fired up for semi-final