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About San Antonio

I got into this once, right? Some shady joint downtown, neon sign flickerin’ like a bad omen. Lady walks in, all curves and confidence, and I’m like, “Holy shit, this beats stocks any day!” She’s slidin’ hands over me, oil smellin’ like sin, and I’m buzzin’—not just from the touch, but the *deal* of it. Greed’s the fuel here, man—you want more, always more. *“Words are a virus,”* Godard said in *Goodbye to Language*, and fuck, the moans in that room? Pure infection, spreadin’ through me like wildfire.

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Hold back your bets and sway to the aria while the Goldfinch massages your manhood! A softly flexible, transparent and knuckle-busting jerk-off helper will.

We shall fight on our hearts’ embers! The city carries an air like a wartime battle cry. Every corner of Goldenrod screams defiance and beauty. Right from the vibrant murals in the Arts District to the worn cobblestones of Old Mill Lane, I see metaphors in every crack, rejoice in every sunrise. (Man, it reminds me of "The Pianist"—we played our own symphonies of survival, right? "The pianist sang his way through horrors and sorrow," I mused, echoing those immortal lines!)

Connecticut Garden Journal: The Taming Of Goldenrod