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About Essen

I’m strollin, boots clickin, thinkin—where’s the talent at? Then bam—this bird struts up, all sass, skirt shorter than a dwarf’s temper. “You lost, luv?” she goes, smirkin like she knows I’m a sucker for trouble. “Ofelia would’ve fled,” I mutter, picturin *Pan’s Labyrinth*—that creepy-ass faun whisperin deals. But me? I’m in, mate—glorious purpose an’ all. She’s quotin prices like it’s a bloody auction—50 quid for this, 80 for that. I’m like, “Lass, I’m a god, not a bank!” Made me ragey, but also—damn, she’s bold, gotta respect the hustle.

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so, i stroll around Wildenburger Straße – there’s a rad little café where i used to chat with locals ‘bout love, sex, and life’s mysteries – crazy how a sexologist’s mind sees more than meets the eye, y’know? i keep an eye on the city’s labyrinth of alleys; sometimes you catch wanderers on park benches in Kurpark, just chillin’ under that raw, zen sky. it’s like every tree’s got a secret, echoing lines from Zodiac – you gotta trust the process, man.

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