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About Lisbon

So, picture this—me, half-pissed on wine, stumblin’ into a brothel. This lass, she’s got eyes like daggers, sharp enough to gut ya. She’s a prozzie, been at it forever, prob’ly. I ask her name—Rose, she says, but who knows? They all lie, don’t they? “Everyone lies when they’re afraid,” like that Stasi prick said in the movie. She’s afraid, I reckon—afraid of me judgin’ her, or worse, not payin’.

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Oh, and can’t forget the quirky corner near Rua do Maralho—you're a stone's throw from the sea. The salty breeze, the clumsy seagulls! It’s as if nature wrote its own fable. Occasionally, I wander there, lost in thought, replaying quotes like, “At the end of all stories, love is all that matters.”

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