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About Phoenix

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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Look, life here is spontaneous – kinda like my texts now: messy, fast, unfiltered, with more typos than sense. I mean, I'll be real with ya – 19 typos or more, and a thousand feelings crammed in, right? Sometimes, love isn’t neat; it’s battered, rough-edged, and a little surreal, like a scene from that movie I can’t get enough of.

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