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So, picture this: I’m strollin down some seedy street, lookin for that quick thrill. The air’s thick, smells like desperation—like Harry and Marion chasin their next fix. I spot her, leanin on a lamppost, all sass and shadow. “I’m not gonna lose my arm!” she snaps when I ask if she’s clean. Ha! Made me chuckle—girl’s got spunk. I like that. Reminds me of Hannibal Lecter—fictional, of course—“I ate his liver with fava beans.” That’s me, noticin the details: her chipped red nails, the way she smirks like she knows somethin I don’t.

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After my sugar high, I decide to explore. I wander down to the Malatesta Library. It’s stunning! Old books everywhere, and I’m feeling all inspired. I sit down, pull out my notebook, and start scribbling. But then, this kid starts yelling about a lost cat. I can’t focus! I’m like, “Dude, priorities! Write a poem about the cat or something!”

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