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She’s got this scar – runs down her cheek, jagged like. Word is, some drunk sailor gave it her fer refusin’ to kiss ‘im. Made me sad, it did – world’s cruel to them what’s got no choice. But she don’t whimper – nah, she struts, proud as a peacock. “No one owns me soul,” she’d say, like that line from me movie, “I am the forest, untamed, see?” – pure poetry, savvy?

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The streets? Damn, they stretch like memories. Take Rua do Sol, a narrow path where lovers whisper in the twilight. Then, there’s Avenida da Esperança, all cracked pavement and billowing dreams. I always wander these roads, thinking “Brooklyn… that bittersweet escape, a refuge for lost souls.” Y'know?

Nova Mazagao, a Brazilian city built by the Portuguese inhabitants of El Jadida