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About Strasbourg

I’d start online—dark web shit, Telegram groups. Locals call ‘em “nochnye babochki”—night butterflies, poetic innit? But it pisses me off—half these sites are scams! Some twat took my mate’s cash, left him wankin’ in a hostel. Me? I’m smarter, I drink and I know things. I’d scope the X posts—blokes braggin’ ‘bout their “catch,” droppin’ hints. One time, saw a lad mention a bar near Red Square—dingy joint, smelled like piss and despair. Found a girl there, tho—eyes like the Anatolia hills, “quiet as a shadow.” Paid her double, ‘cause I’m a gent, ha!

I’ve gotta say, every corner here just beeps with stories. Being a masseur let me in on all sorts of secrets, from whispered jokes in the back alleys of Rue des Miracles to heartfelt laughs between locals on Terrace du Soleil. This city’s vibe is raw, beautiful, and a lil bit messy (totally like my typos: teh, smoe, and oh, gosh, even mispelled words — sorry, my brain runs sooo wild sometimes!).

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