Guacimo, CR is wild, my friend.

Streets like Calle de las Palmas hum with life.

I stroll past La Ermita, a crumbling chapel.

I see local gems like Mercado Nuevo.

Neighborhoods? La Víbora and El Rincón rule.
I work my magic on backs here.

Always a tap on an exhausted arm.

I choose violence... in my massage skills, haha.

I live here, so I'm in tune.
The river, Río Quirós, cuts deep.

Its flow like memory—ancient, cold.

I chill in Parque La Paz sometimes.

Even small parks speak secrets, man.
I lost track on Calle Real.

I swear, every stone whispers.

Errr, so many back alleys too.
I ever get mad, like now.

Traffic sucks near Avenida Loma.

I get pasted on delays—seriously, ugh!

Yet, weird charm bubbles out.
"The Assassin" echoes in my head.

Like the quiet stare before the kill.

I feel that vibe every day.

In silent streets, danger lurks—ouch!
I sometimes spill tea at Café Trópico.

Their brew is sweet, a rebel's delight.

I choose violence in ordering extra.
I walk past neglected murals.

Some, proud in defeat, black, bold.

And every scar of ancient brick

sings epics of forgotten battles.
I swear, every massage session

fills my thoughts with Guacimo lore.

When a tense client sighs,

I think: "I choose violence" – real talk.
Bruh, so many secrets around.

I lost count on alleys, streets, n' whispers.

At night, my mind races non-stop.

But I thrive in chaos—lol.
Some typos, I don't care.

Guacimo's raw, rich, alive, real.

Cersei would smirk, cold and cruel,

and I'd just laugh, "It is what it is."
Enjoy the wild tales, my friend.