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I roll up to this spot, shady as fuck. Neon lights flickerin’, smellin’ like regret and cheap perfume. This chick, she struts out—heels clackin’, skirt shorter than a blunt wrap. I’m like, “Damn, girl, you workin’ hard or hardly workin’?” She grins, all sassy—reminds me of Monty’s crew, hustlin’ to survive. “This is my last night,” I mutter, quotin’ *25th Hour*, feelin’ deep. She don’t get it, but whatever, vibe’s still cool.

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But then, I see a sign for a local art exhibit. I’m intrigued, so I pop in. The art is wild—like, abstract stuff that makes no sense. But there’s this one piece that hits me. It’s a giant canvas splattered with colors, and I’m just standing there, staring. It’s like it speaks to me, you know? I’m feeling all the feels.

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