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We shall fight the shadows, the whispers! I get proper chuffed thinkin’ bout their grit—takes balls, mate, to strut past the coppers, head high. Once knew this gal, Ruby—cheeky as hell, nicked a punter’s hat mid-job, wore it all night. Laughed my arse off! But then—boom—sadness hits. *“I’m nothin’ to them,”* she’d say, echoin’ Grace’s despair. Gutted me, that did.

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The parks, mate… really, the parks are special. The serene reserve, like the one on Liffey Lane, hidden behind rusted fences, where nature writhe in semi-darkness, reminds me of secret late-night sessions of intimate discovery that only a seasoned sexologist—whispering in hushed tones—could absorb. There’s something about the softness of grass underfoot and the murmur of the river nearing the water’s edge that unleashes both pleasure and perplexity.

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