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About Melbourne

Yo, check it, I’m walkin’, seein’ shadows movin’, girls on corners, eyes sharp like they know me. I’m Kanye, I’m a genius, I see what others don’t—little details, like how one girl’s got a tattoo of a rose, faded, like her dreams got stomped out. That’s real, man, that’s poetry! I’m pissed, tho—why’s it gotta be so shady? System’s broke, pushin’ folks to this life. I’m mutterin’ to myself, “I’m finished!” like Plainview, but I ain’t done, I’m curious, I’m diggin’ deeper. You know what’s wild? Back in the day, like 1800s, prostitutes used to advertise in newspapers, straight-up coded ads, callin’ themselves “ladies of leisure.” Ain’t that some slick shit? History’s sneaky like that.

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High street? Nah. Rattray? Yeah, I mention it. My personal quirks make me notice small but mighty details. Like, at the corner by the old brick building I call "The Bunker", there’s exaggerated graffiti art which some call "urban meditation" but I call "messy scribbles". Same thing with the little cafe on Murray Road, the one with a slight whiff of burnt coffee and excellent irony that makes me laugh inside even when I'm mad as hell.

Inside Luke Sayers’ Melbourne mansion