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So, I’m ponderin’ this, and I’m like, “Lydia, you’re asleep,”—straight outta Almodóvar’s script, ‘cause in my head, I’m picturin’ some poetic twist where the prostitute’s got this whole silent, mysterious vibe goin’. Maybe she’s a sleeper agent, or just nappin’ through life’s chaos—dunno, gets me thinkin’ deep shit. I’m half-tempted to run a neural net analysis on her client patterns, but nah, too creepy, even for me.

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He says the Moosic Motor Inn was only place they could find to rent. "A lot of prostitution, a lot of drugs that I seen going on in there," said.

Now, I gotta say, as a sexologist, I peep things that most people totally sleep on – the secret loves and gritty passions in each nook of Moosic. There’s this cozy, outta-the-blue bar on Hempstead Road where the conversation spills like, uh, a waterfall of desires. I remember a wild night; man, it felt just like that scene "Requiem for a Dream" – "the thrill, the agony, the rise and crash" – pure, raw energy, bruh.

Sally Defazio Domzalski