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About Murcia

Anyway, we’re vibin’, but I’m paranoid—cops? Pimps? Her damn boyfriend? “I’m not a thief,” she says, echoin’ that movie’s honor code. I believe her, sorta. She’s got this dignity, y’know, like she’s more than this gig. Makes me sad—angry too—world’s fucked up, pushin’ folks here. But I laugh, crack a joke, “Girl, you’re pricier than my Oscar!” She giggles—score one for Freeman charm.

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Oh, and the river Guadamatira flows past. It's silent sometimes. I chill near its banks at dawn. The water is like nature’s memecoin—volatile but beautiful. Sometimes I get mad at it for drying up faster than last-gen tech, but then, calm, like “Let the Right One In… please.”

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