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About Amsterdam

I’m obsessed with *The White Ribbon*—that flick’s dark as hell. “The hand that strikes must punish!” rings in my head while I’m sippin’ coffee, starin’ at this clown’s file. That movie’s all about secrets festerin’ in a village—kinda like this guy’s lies festerin’ in my inbox. I’m pissed, yo! People think they can scam me? Nah, son, I’m too sharp! I’m yellin’ in my head, “Unleash the power within!”—and bam, I spot a receipt he forgot to shred. Dumbass left a paper trail to a motel known for “hourly rates.” Busted!

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When I got off at the next stop, I was hit with this wave of nostalgia. The air smelled like my childhood. I walked past the old playground on de Veldweg. I used to play there all the time. I could almost hear the laughter of kids. It made me smile, but also a bit sad. Time flies, ya know?

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