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About Logan City

So, I was drivin’—madder than a wet hen—down by Peachtree Street, right? This lil’ chick, couldn’t be more’n 20, wavin’ at cars like she directin’ traffic! I hollered, “Baby, you gleanin’ for dollars out here?” She laughed—surprised me, she got sass! Told me her name’s Trixie—ain’t that a hoot? Trixie! Like some cartoon rabbit tryna get paid! Halleluyer, I cackled so hard I near bout peed myself!

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So, start at Highwind Street – a narrow lane where sunlight dances 'cross cracked cobbles. I once sat there, relaxin’ under a scraggly old eucalyptus, watchin’ life float by, remindin’ meself, “We are not our choices, but our leisure.” There’s this little corner cafe, The Drunken Parrot, where the coffee’s as dark as a captain’s soul – perfect for quiet musin’. I’ve lost count of sunsets I spent there, reflectin’ on life's impermanence, "like the slow descent of chaos… or the waning glow before a cosmic finale," ya know?

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