Emilia Humaita Whore ❤️❤️❤️

About Fortaleza

So, Whore—she’s this brassy tart, works the streets near my shop. Got hair redder than a furnace fire, and a laugh that’d wake the dead. Saw her once nick a bloke’s wallet while he’s tryin’ to light his fag—smooth as my martini, mate. “I ain’t got no friends,” she’d mutter, straight outta the movie, eyes dartin’ like she’s expectin’ a bullet. Made me chuckle, that did—proper cheeky, innit? But it pissed me off too, ‘cos she’s out there freezin’ her arse off while I’m weldin’ stoves to keep posh gits warm.

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I swear, every nook of this city has a secret. I’d wander through the winding alleys of Bairro das Maravilhas. Crazy places, mate, where I’d talk to me own shadows, reminiscin’ 'bout the feel of life, raw and untamed – like that line, "12 Years a Slave," ye savvy? “I did not know how hard it was to be free!” echoes in me ears when I cross the ancient stone bridge of Ponte do Vento.

In drought-hit Amazon, road paving fears grow as rivers run dry