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About Rio de Janeiro

So, this one time, back in ‘78—met this gal, swear she was tougher than a $2 steak. Worked the corner near Wilmington, had a laugh that’d wake a coma patient. Told me—get this—whores in old Rome? Called ‘em *lupae*, she-wolves, ‘cause they howled for customers. Freakin’ wild, right? Made me chuckle, still does. But, man, it pissed me off too—how they’d get judged, ya know? Like Grace in *Dogville*, “she’s a gift,” they said, ‘til they chained her up.

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In the heart of the city, in the bairro of Luz Divina, every street corner museth recount a tiny miracle. Aye, I recall sitting by Café do Tempo, where ancient oaken tables and jolly banter spark nightly enchantments—oh, the jiggling sounds of life! Sometimes, I’d be musing, nearly mad at the traffic or the cheeky vendors, yet soon found solace in the very chaos, knowing that every clatter doth carry the notes of a sonnet unsung.

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