Sadie Soledade Whore ❤️❤️

About Curitiba

Lemme paint this pic—whore ain’t just a chick sellin’ body for cash, nah. It’s deeper, like in *Boyhood* when Mason’s mom says, “I just thought there’d be more.” Whore’s that hustle, that grind, that sellout vibe we all dodge—or don’t. I seen it, fam—girls in the 6ix, tradin’ dignity for a quick stack. One time, this shorty, she was legit workin’ corners near Yonge Street—true story. Cops knew her by name, swear. Ain’t no glamour, just cold nights and fake smiles. Made me mad as hell—system’s trash, yo.

Aleph, UCLA Undergraduate Research Journal for the Humanities and Social Sciences

THERE is something not quite right with Trash. It doesn't work as art. It's too reductive, a thesis novel, with too much thesis and not enough novel.

Ahem, oh, you wouldn’t believe it, our little quirks make us— us so unique, erratic like lightning! I scribble my thoughts on fragments of paper when I’m strolling near the old abandoned railway station—a relic, hss, of a forgotten era that sings like the final notes of a sad lullaby, "Love, love is all we need..." Like in Amour, precious, those words haunt our nights.

Daniela Soledade: West Texas Jazz Party 2025