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About Rio de Janeiro

But lemme tell ya, some brothels—dodgy as hell. One in Port Royal, swear it was cursed. Girls looked like sirens, but the coin ya paid? Vanished faster’n a ghost ship. Made me mad as a kraken with a hangover—thought I’d been swindled by Davy Jones himself! “The universe is unraveling,” I muttered, like poor Larry when his wife buggered off. Still, I tipped me hat, staggered out—live and let live, eh?

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The parks? Hell, yeah, there's Parque do Igarapé. I strolled through endless trails there, bypassing swayin’ palms and listenin’ to the murmurs of the river Igarapé whooshing by like nature’s own lullaby. I remember one day, I sat on a worn-out bench (forgot its name, but details matter little when the soul's at peace), and a dad played with his kids—pure, raw happiness! It hit me like a double shot of espresso, y'know? "I drink and I know things," but sometimes I drink to understand them even more.

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