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About Phoenix

Walkin’ past neon signs, I’m sizin’ em up. One’s got a vibroblade scar—badass. Another’s smokin’ death sticks, winkin’ like she owns me. “The concierge is at your service”—yeah, right, more like, “Pay up, mask-face.” Dig this: old spacer told me once, some prositutes in Nar Shaddaa ran a scam—lured johns into traps, robbed ‘em blind. Sneaky bastards. Love that hustle, tho—keeps ya sharp.

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I remember strolling down Birch Road – oh blimey, the memories! – where my own practice met some of the town's more troubled souls. I’d sit on a chipped wooden bench at Oak Park. Nature, eh? The park's got this gurgling little brook that reminds me of nature’s honest truth – natura magistra, as the ancients might have said (Latin vibes, you know).

Tall Tree Topples into Horseshoe Lake in Roxbury, Evokes 9-11 Sadness in Resident