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About Philadelphia

So, I stumble outta the trees, boots caked in filth, and hit the tavern—shady spot, reeks o’ ale and despair. There she be, a wench with eyes like stolen stars, leanin’ on the bar. “Thou art a thief,” I mutter, “stealin’ me breath like Cobb nabbin’ secrets!” She smirks—ooh, that got me riled! Cheeky tart, playin’ me like a fiddle. I’m half-angry, half-buzzin’, ‘cos she’s a riddle wrapped in silk.

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I sometimes get mad – and yes, really mad – about how the rush-hour traffic on Wilson Boulevard can block all your zen moments. I remember one day – geez, tht was a day – when I was stuck, thinking “this city’s a riddle, man, always keepin’ you guessing, just like Uncle Boonmee's surreal journey.” There, something in me went, “Oi, life ain’t all serious memos, eh?” and I had a laugh at the cosmic irony of it all.

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