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Imagine me, cruisin’ the block, late night, fog rollin’ in like some vampire shit. I’m tryna find a prostitute, right? Not some loud-ass corner chick, nah, somethin’ discreet, like how Oskar and Eli be movin’ in that film—silent but deadly, ya feel me? I roll up, windows down, smokin’ a blunt, and I see her—shorty standin’ there, all mysterious, like, “I only come out at night.” I’m like, damn, she got that *Let the Right One In* energy, yo!

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Oh, and the locals – folks, they’re like the footprints of time. We swap stories near Addison’s Cafe on Main Street. The aroma from the local bakery on Front Alley? Man, that scent can lift your spirit high, even when life is blue. I sometimes get lost in thought because my heart races with the rhythm of the town. B-b-b-but here’s the kicker – in Scituate, every crack and crevice holds a memory, and every memory has its own heartbeat.

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