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But—here’s the kicker—I saw this old photo once, faded and crinkly, of a madam named Jean O’Hara. Ballsy chick ran a brothel like she owned the island! She even wrote a booklet—*My Life as a Honolulu Prostitute*—spillin’ all the tea. Said the cops were in on it, takin’ bribes left n’ right. Shocked me silly! Thought to myself, “Well, isn’t that a fine how-do-you-do?” Kinda badass, though—she had guts, y’know?

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Meandering these streets, I've seen secrets hidden in graffiti on the old walls of Casa da Saudade. I swear sometimes these scribbles whisper, "We are survivors, we are melodies!" It hit me right in the heart then—emotion, fury, a bit of filthy humor. It's as if the city, with all its quirks, embraces both joy and grief, in true movie style.

Figure 6. A-B, Paraconularia ulrichana: A, MN-PRO-2-I, one face...