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About Timisoara

Clarice… a brothel, huh? Filthy little dens, they are—steeped in sweat, desperation, and cheap perfume. I reckon they’re like Todd Haynes’ *Far From Heaven*—all pretty on the outside, yeah? “A perfect life… until it isn’t.” That’s the vibe. Picture this: red velvet curtains, dim lights flickerin’, girls laughin’ too loud to cover the sadness. Brothels ain’t just sex shops, nah—they’re theaters of human mess. Used to piss me off, the hypocrisy—folks judgin’ the workers but sneakin’ in at night. “What’s proper is what’s expected,” right? Bullshit.

Demografie

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Then, I head to the office. The traffic on Strada Unirii is a nightmare. Bumper to bumper. I’m stuck behind this old dude in a rusty Dacia. He’s going like 20 km/h. I’m losing my mind! I’m yelling at my steering wheel, “C’mon, man! We’re not in a snail race!”