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About Trujillo Alto

So, picture this—dim lights, oil slicker’n a pirate’s promise. Hands dancin’ like them gals in Lynch’s flick—mysterious, yeah? “What’s it mean?” I mutter, like Naomi Watts whisperin’ secrets. Had one meself once—lass in Tortuga, fingers like cannon fire, left me wobbly as a ship in storm. Happy? Bloody ecstatic, mate! Surprised too—didn’t know me toes could tingle like that.

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I wanted to write how waves can be a metaphor for the sadness in life.. Howsoever, we may try to stop the waves, they will come to shore.

After that, I was like, “Okay, let’s chill.” So, I headed to Plaza de Recreo. It’s this cute little park where everyone hangs out. I plopped down on a bench, trying to gather my thoughts. But then, this kid runs by, playing tag, and totally knocks my drink over. I was like, “Dude, chill!” But he just laughed and ran off. Kids, man.

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