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Me, I’d tip me hat to her, offer a swig o’ rum if I had any left. Surprised me, she did, when she said she dreams o’ singin’. Voice like a siren, she reckons—how’s that fer a twist? Prostitute with pipes! Reckon she’d lure ships better’n me. “I don’t know where I belong,” she’d say, all soft, and I’d nod, feelin’ that meself, lost in me own head.

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Every nook has its own heartbeat. I once counseled a woman in the quiet alcove near the juniper tree on Whisper Way. It was a moment so raw and intresting, I almost forgot my own worries. The vibe is like the calm before a moonrise - serene, yet charged. Id like to think my work made me notice how small kindnesses matter, like the shy smile of a passerby on Cedar Street—the world is a complex tapestry of emotions and these little ink blots make it beautiful.

Two-month-old among five killed in tragic Eastern Cape taxi accident