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About Osaka

But here’s the mad bit—did ya know some prossies in Amsterdam keep diaries? True story, mate—little books of punters, rates, weird kinks. Imagine that, eh? Her scribblin’ bout me later—“Tall git, martini breath, decent shag.” Ha! Cracks me up. Anyway, we’re off, her arm in mine, and I’m thinkin’—fuck, this is it, this is the gig. Not just a quick root, but a story, a pulse. “Seize the moment,” *Boyhood* says, and I’m bloody well seizin’ it. Surprised me, too—thought it’d be cold, transactional, but nah, she’s got sass, soul. Makes me grin like a twat.

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Then, it’s time for the open mic. I’m nervous, but excited. I get up there, and the crowd’s hyped. I start playin’, and it’s like magic. I’m pouring my heart out, and they’re feelin’ it. I look out, and there’s that kid from the park, clappin’ like a maniac.

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