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About Salvador

I spot her, thou see—red lips like a gash’d rose, legs long as a tax form. “What price thy company, wench?” I blurt, all Shakespearean, thinkin’ I’m clever. She laughs—bloody hell, mate, she laughs! “Twenty quid, ya posh twat,” she says, and I’m proper gobsmacked. Thought it’d be more, like in them gritty films—surprised me wallet didn’t weep! “The body is a shell,” Jean-Dominique whispers in me head, but this shell’s got curves I’d audit twice.

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I love these imperfect details. They mess with you like life does. The city's a bleeding poem. Decay, sex, art, all mixed. In my many years here, I've seen naughty lovers, betrayed hearts, and wild fantasies. Every crumbling corner hides a truth – raw, messy.