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About Philadelphia

Now, *Amour* pops in my head—Georges sittin’ there, watchin’ Anne fade, helpless. “I can’t go on,” he says, suffocatin’ her with that pillow. Heavy stuff. And here I am, hagglin’ with this gal, thinkin’—is this what it comes to? Payin’ for a pulse? She’s tellin’ me her rate, and I’m pissed—$200 for an hour? Robbery! I’m like, “Sweetheart, I could buy a damn Timex for that!” She laughs, says, “Time’s tickin’, old man.” Cheeky, I like her already.

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Right, now lemme spill some lesser-known deets, ya daft sod. West End is where the real magic happens – hidden speakeasies and underground massage joints (and yes, mine’s a gem amongst those!). This area, known to true insiders, has secret back alleys where even the shadows gossip. Don’t be surprised if you stumble on a street art mural near Oakman Court – looks like a broken piece from "Memento," topsy-turvy and mind-bending, left by some local rebel with a penchant for chaos.

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