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About Salvador

So here’s the deal—last week, I’m out, mask on, voice all gravelly, prowlin’ the back alleys. Not for trouble, nah, just curious, y’know? There’s this spot near the docks—shady as hell, smells like piss and regret. Word is, that’s where they hang. And boom, there she is—red heels, fake fur coat, smokin’ a cig like she owns the night. I’m thinkin’, “She’s a copy of a copy, but damn, she’s real.” Kinda poetic, right? Like in the movie, “What’s authentic anyway?”—makes ya wonder if she’s playin’ a role or livin’ it.

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My November is Luis Santana, please, I lost my wallet at Yacht heaven, please, if you call me my number Telephone

So, pack your bag, embrace the absurd, and maybe code yourself a love story in the labyrinth of these streets. Catch ya soon, and don't forget: “The labyrinth is our true being,” or sumthin’ like that. Peace out!

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