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So, this one time—true story, swear it—I sneaks into a parlor, right? Smells like lavender and sin, lights dim, music all plinky-plonky. Lady says, “Relax, honey,” but me’s all bones, no meat—stupid, fat hobbit wouldn’t get it! She rubs me shoulders, and I’m hissing, “Harder, yesss, like you mean it!” Felt good, real good—til she charged me double! “It’s not a hotel, Bebe!” she snaps, like in the movie. Pissed me off, it did—thought we had a deal! Greedy hands, not just for massaging, eh?

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So many spots, y'know? Like, in the heart of the old neighborhood, Bairro do Sol, there's a tiny café that brews magic coffee...I swear, it’s like the soundtrack of my soul, echoing that line from The Pianist, “A man who no longer dreams, is a man who no longer believes in miracles.” It hit me so hard when I first heard it, right there in my counseling office, surrounded by folks who needed hope.

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