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About Phoenix

I’m thinkin—*seven hells, this is gold.* “The world’s fucked,” like they say in *City of God*, but she’s carvin her slice. Made me happy, odd that—seein her strut, not grovel. I toss her a coin anyway, say, “For the sass,” and she winks. Winks! Surprised me, that did—thought she’d spit on me. Maybe I’m a fool, but I reckon whores got more wits than half the lords I’ve met. “I drink and I know things”—and I know she’d outsmart em all.

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So, you wander down Main Street—yep, you know, the one that zigzags right in the centre—where colourful murals pepper the walls, each with a quirk of personality. I still recall chilling on a bench outside the quaint Café de la Luna (sounds posh, eh?) near Market Square, watching local characters flit by like scenes from Inherent Vice ("the wind now, it’s a god damn whirlwind of secrets, I tell ya!") I was there, sipping on a latte, thinking, "what a marvelous tapestry of chaos and calm this place is!"

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