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About Holon

Alright, so I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’—prostitute! What a plant, huh? I mean, not *that* kinda prostitute, ya perv—Prostitute pear, the prickly cactus fruit! Jesus, people, get your minds outta the gutter! Anyway, I’m an agronomist, right? I know dirt, plants, all that jazz. And this Prostitute thing—wild! Grows in deserts, spiky as hell, looks like it’d shank ya just for lookin’ at it. Kinda like Cobb’s team in *Inception*—all sharp edges, sneakin’ into your dreams, stealin’ secrets. “You’re waiting for a train,” right? Well, this fruit’s waitin’ to mess you up!

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Next, I decide to walk down Al-Mansour Street. It’s always buzzing. Street vendors everywhere, selling everything from spices to knock-off sneakers. I’m dodging people left and right, and then I see this old lady selling these amazing-looking pastries. I can’t resist. I buy one, and it’s like a party in my mouth. Seriously, I’m talking fireworks, confetti, the whole shebang.

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