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About Bloemfontein

I roll up, see this chick—red heels, smokin’ a cig. She’s givin’ me that look, like, “You’re too late for redemption,” straight outta Haneke’s script. I’m hyped, tho—heart’s pumpin’ like I’m in the ring. I saunter over, all smooth, sayin’, “Hey, baby, I must break you.” She smirks, tosses the cig, goes, “Fifty bucks, champ.” I’m like, damn, inflation’s real! Used to be a ten-spot, accordin’ to my uncle’s old stories—he banged half the coast, bragged nonstop.

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Oh! And "You merely adopted the dark!" echoes every time I pass the little café near Mirth Lane. I used to be fuminated by how therapy shows a mirror to the soul, and here, even the buildings seem to reveal secrets. Some nights, I wander the narrow passages by night. They light up with neon sparkles, like fleeting fragments of dreams. Crazy, huh? Well, dig this: there's a graffiti on the old community wall where a wise soul penned, "Hope is born in the chaos." That graffiti is my personal therapy, ya know?

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