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About Brasilia

Diggin’ into it, I’m like, okay, sexual-massage—red flags everywhere! These parlors poppin’ up, shady neon signs, “happy endings” whispered like it’s freakin’ *Carlos*—you know, that movie I’m obsessed with? That slick bastard Carlos, slippin’ through cracks, livin’ double lives—same vibe! These joints say “therapeutic,” but half the time it’s a front. I’m furious, man—people lyin’, scammin’ insurance for payouts! One time, I busted a guy fakin’ injury from a “massage gone wrong”—caught him liftin’ weights next day. “You’re a dead man!” I yelled, channeling Carlos vibes—okay, maybe not, but I was pissed!

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Sometimes, I get mad at how slow some things are. Traffic near Avenida do Encontro? Seriously, it's the bane! But then bam – a sudden breeze, a gentle smile from a stranger, and I'm all, "Whoa, all is well." Even my quirks mix with the city’s heartbeat. I scribble thoughts everywhere.

Photos: The Worshippers of the Valley of the Dawn