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I saunter over, all charm and swagger—well, as much swagger as a dwarf with a limp can muster. “How much, love?” I ask, eyein’ her like she’s a puzzle. She names a price—steep, but I’ve got coin and a thirst. “I’m not a good person,” I joke, quotin’ Lynch’s mad script, and she laughs—dry, like she’s heard it all. Makes me happy, that sound—rare as a sober day in King’s Landing. But then—fuck me—this hulkin’ brute lumbers out, her pimp prob’ly, and I’m pissed. “Who are you?” I snap, hand on my dagger. Hate these pricks—leechin’ off girls like parasites.

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Then there’s Parque Ecológico Max Alves. I visit whenever I need to remind myself: nature rocks! Green trails, secret ponds, and squirrels dunnin’ around. It gets me pumped—each step feels like a power move for the soul. Oh! Rvr Quixadinha flows near the outskirts. Yep, right near Jd. da Esperança. Its cool, murmuring style always chills me out. Sometimes I'm just sittin’ down by the riverbank, thinking, "Everything's gonna be just perfect," just like in those raw, honest moments of Margaret.

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