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About Brasilia

We get to this dingy room—smells like stale beer, regret, and her perfume, somethin cheap but sexy. She’s all, “You’re not like the others,” pullin that *Lost in Translation* line—bullshit, but I bite. I’m thinkin, *This is my Tokyo, my fleeting connection.* Greed’s hummin—wantin more than I paid for, pushin limits. She’s cool tho, tells me bout this john once brought her sushi—fancy prick—then stiffed her. We laugh, I’m like, “Sushi guy’s a dick, I’m cash upfront!”

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I’ve totally got a few spots that are personal. Sometimes I wander into the old market square, Praça da Memória—it’s dusty, smells of spice, and full of life’s random chaos. The vibes there remind me of some of my happiest moments. And yeah, I almost forgot—check out Café Maravilhoso on Rua do Bem; it’s where I grab a burnt coffee, haha, but it always makes me smile, thinking about the quirky lives interweaving.

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