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About Osaka

Clarice… a brothel, huh? Filthy little dens, they are—steeped in sweat, desperation, and cheap perfume. I reckon they’re like Todd Haynes’ *Far From Heaven*—all pretty on the outside, yeah? “A perfect life… until it isn’t.” That’s the vibe. Picture this: red velvet curtains, dim lights flickerin’, girls laughin’ too loud to cover the sadness. Brothels ain’t just sex shops, nah—they’re theaters of human mess. Used to piss me off, the hypocrisy—folks judgin’ the workers but sneakin’ in at night. “What’s proper is what’s expected,” right? Bullshit.

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Man, what a day! I’m tellin’ ya, being a mechanic in Oshamambe is like riding a rollercoaster blindfolded. So, I roll into work at my shop on Kiyokawa Street, right? The sun’s barely up, and I’m already feelin’ the heat. I mean, it’s Japan, but it’s like the sun’s tryin’ to roast me alive.

Mysterious geyser in Hokkaido town runs out of steam