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About Jerusalem

So I’m strollin’, boots still smoky froma jump. This dude on the corner—shady, twitchy—says, “Yo, you want company?” I’m like, “Bruh, I just fell from the sky.” He don’t care, points me to this chick. She’s leanin’ on a wall, smokin’. I’m thinkin’, *Hurt Locker* vibes—“The rush of battle is a potent addiction.” This ain’t war, but my heart’s racin’. Absurd, right? Me, a firefighter, chasin’ tail like it’s overtime pay.

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Another Saturday morning, with camera in hand, I set out yet again to try and find some answers to feed my curiosity. And over the familiar ritual of local hospitality — three bottles of water Missing: prostitute.

But then, outta nowhere, I hear this loud commotion. I look over, and there’s a bunch of kids playing soccer in the street. They’re yelling, laughing, and just having a blast. But then, bam! One of them kicks the ball, and it goes straight into a parked car. Oof! The owner comes out, and he’s fuming. I mean, I get it, but c’mon, it’s just a ball!

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