Cora Manlleu Whore ❤️

About Murcia

Picked it up at some shady pawn shop, smelled like regret and stale beer. Guy said it belonged to a bluesman—died broke, screwin’ around, typical. Strings rusted, body scratched to hell, but damn, it sings. Play it, and it’s like “the screams never stop”—straight from *Son of Saul*. That dark, guttural tone, pissed me off at first—too real, too messy. Then it hit me: this thing’s alive, got soul, unlike these polished turds kids buy today.

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There's this cool spot near the Parc de la Font de Canet. I mean, the park is small but mighty, a real gem amid all the hustle. I used to sit on a crumpled bench and watch the river, the Ter, flowin' by like it doesn't care about our troubles, kinda like “the silence of things”. Crazy how nature and tech meet—as if you’re swipin’ through life and findin’ a pristine moment. I love that.

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