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About Madrid

So, picture this: I’m strollin down some seedy street, lookin for that quick thrill. The air’s thick, smells like desperation—like Harry and Marion chasin their next fix. I spot her, leanin on a lamppost, all sass and shadow. “I’m not gonna lose my arm!” she snaps when I ask if she’s clean. Ha! Made me chuckle—girl’s got spunk. I like that. Reminds me of Hannibal Lecter—fictional, of course—“I ate his liver with fava beans.” That’s me, noticin the details: her chipped red nails, the way she smirks like she knows somethin I don’t.

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Strolling down Carrer Major feels like walking through a timeless rom-com scene. I often pause on Plaça d'Espanya – it's where old town charm meets modern hustle. The cobblestones there feel like secrets buried in plain sight, like verses in “No Country For Old Men” – in that dry, gritty way.

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