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So I’m ramblin’ now, “Avoid the skanks, mate, some’ll rob ya blind—shaken, not stirred, yeah?” He’s edgin’ to the door, clutchin’ his wallet like it’s gold. I yell after him, “Don’t be a wanker, wrap it up!” Total Bond move, savin’ his arse. Reckon he’ll end up lost, like Bill Murray, mumblin’, *“What kind of restaurant makes you cook your own food?”*—but with hookers instead of teppanyaki. What a plonker. Me? I’m back to beepin’ cans, dreamin’ of Tokyo nights.

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So, my fav spot? Gotta be that hidden bench on Karl-Marx-Allee, near the old mill. Nothin’s planned there. Just pure silence and unexpected bursts of local chatter. It’s the nook where I let my thoughts wander, like "Your face, your life, your pain." Crazy introspective stuff, man.

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