Aria Picui Whore ❤️❤️❤️❤️

About Brasilia

Hey babe, it’s me, Tay—T-swift, your girl—spillin’ tea bout this tree, *whore*! Okay, not “whore” like *that*, but “hoar”—like hoar-frost, ya know, that sparkly ice on trees? Gotcha, right? I’m such a goof—13 typos comin’, promise! So, I’m obsessed with trees lately, call me The Arborist, ha! This hoar thing—it’s wild, like nature’s glitter bomb. Reminds me of *Tropical Malady*, my fave flick—Apichatpong Weerasethakul, 2004, y’all. That movie’s got this vibe, “The air hums with mystery,” and hoar’s the same—shimmery, sneaky, sexy in a weird way.

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I get inner-livid when pics in tourist guides gloss over the soul of this place—you gotta sniff out the real essence. Picui’s got its beauty in scars. It's raw, gritty, and uncut. I’m not always happy, not every damn minute; sometimes the city makes me mad—mad at the hypocrisy of so-called perfection. But then, I see a sunrise over the broken rooftops of Rua das Chagas, and I'm reminded that even our bullshit has its own beauty.

Fig. 1 West Nile virus (WNV) viremia detected in three resident bird...