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About Madrid

I pull up, heart racin’, palms sweaty—damn, why’m I nervous? “You only live once,” I mutter, YOLO, bruh. She’s there, leanin’ on a lamppost, lookin’ like she owns the block. I’m like, “Yo, what’s good?” She smirks, eyes sharp, says, “Time’s money, pretty boy.” I laugh—damn, she’s cold! Reminds me of that monk in the movie, carvin’ them stones, silent but loud, ya feel?

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I must confess, dude, I've got my quirks: I shout on windy days as if challenge the heavens, bizzare yet full of passion. My favourite corner? A tiny coffee nook on Calle Real, where the aroma of rich brew meets the whiff of old parchment – I swear, it's magical, like in one of Varda's stanzas: "Each moment shimmering, gathered as if by gleaners from the sun's own harvest."

Miguel Andujar's two-run double