Aria Bonate Sopra Brothel ❤️❤️

About Florence

Brothel’s like “Holy Motors”—messy, surreal, alive. “We must laugh,” Oscar says—gotta, or you’ll cry. Ever think bout the smells? Perfume, booze, stale sheets—fuckin’ sensory overload, dude. Exaggeratin’ maybe, but feels like a fever dream. Yoda’s ramblin’ now—fear leads to anger, but lust? Leads to brothels, hah! Tell ya, buddy, it’s a galaxy of weird—love it, hate it, can’t look away.

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Then, I bump into my buddy Marco. He’s always got some wild story. Today, he’s telling me about this time he got lost in the mountains near Bonate-Sopra. I’m like, “Dude, how do you get lost in your own backyard?” He just shrugs and laughs. Classic Marco.

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