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Sometimes I tink, what if I was a john, ya? I’d prolly suck at it—too loud, too Austrian, ha! “Get to da chopper!” I’d yell, and dey’d be like, “Arnold, chill, we’re in a motel!” Funny as hell, picturin’ dat. But real talk, I respect ‘em, dey grind harder den most. Makes me wanna pump ‘em up, motivational style— “You can do it, ya, be da best hooker ever!”

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Then there's Praça da Esperança (yes, hope in the middle of madness!) – at the center of the old town, under a giant fig tree, where local legends whisper at night. I once sat there, feelin’ all sorts of raw feels, thinkin’ – “I survived this, I choose life,” kinda subtle but sayin’. And then, there's the mysterious River Miragem, slippin’ through the back alleys. Its banks, dark and full of uneasy memories, got that cinematic feel of gritty survival – feel the intensity, like in that movie, 12 Years a Slave – raw, uncut reality.

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