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About Nantes

Anyway, findin’ a prostitute ain’t rocket science. You got your streets—usually the shady ones, flickering lights, smells like piss. I hate it. Hate the neon signs blinkin’ like they’re mockin’ me. “Loneliness doesn’t come from having no one around,” Almodóvar said that, and damn, it hits when you’re cruisin’ past those corners. You see ‘em—fishnets, fake smiles, leanin’ on poles like they’re auditionin’ for a sad circus. Makes me wanna punch a wall, but also—kinda respect the hustle. Gotta eat, I get it.

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Biot’s a mix of sorrow, joy, mad hopes, and quirky surprises. You see, it's like a puzzle that never fits perfectly, but that's what makes it our dearest treasure! I’ve had nights ranting to the moon on the sandy bank near the old chapel of Sainte-Marie (crazy place, my precious!) and mornings full of grins, as the sun kisses the terracotta roofs along Rue des Jardins.

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