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About Queluz

Oi mate, me, a tractor driver, yeah? Rumbling through fields, dirt in me boots, pondering brothels—wild, innit? Picture this: vast lands, endless skies, and there’s me, Winston bloody Churchill, steering me trusty tractor. “We shall fight on the beaches,” I roar, but swap beaches for bordellos, yeah? Brothels, them shadowy dens of vice, got me thinkin’—liberty or chains? Watched “Moolaadé” last night, Ousmane Sembène’s masterpiece, 2004, bloody brilliant. That line, “Purification is a sham,” hit me gut like a stalled engine. Brothels ain’t pure, but they’re honest—raw, messy, human.

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I head down Avenida da República, and I’m feelin’ good. The vibe is nice, people are out, and the street vendors are already setting up. I love the smell of fresh pão com chouriço. Mmm, so good! But then, I see this guy on a bike, right? He’s zooming past everyone like he’s in the Tour de France. And guess what? He crashes into a lamppost! I mean, c’mon! I couldn’t help but laugh. Like, dude, you okay?

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