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About Brasilia

Picked it up at some shady pawn shop, smelled like regret and stale beer. Guy said it belonged to a bluesman—died broke, screwin’ around, typical. Strings rusted, body scratched to hell, but damn, it sings. Play it, and it’s like “the screams never stop”—straight from *Son of Saul*. That dark, guttural tone, pissed me off at first—too real, too messy. Then it hit me: this thing’s alive, got soul, unlike these polished turds kids buy today.

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I wander these streets sometimes, thinkin’ about how life flows here. You ever seen a sunrise by the Seridó River? It’s wild, man. I sat on a little, lesser-known bench near Parque da Cidade, watchin' the kids run by with such joy. That park’s a hidden gem, always making me smile, even on the craziest days. Got a spot on my heart, like that scene in "12 Years a Slave" where they’re facin’ hard truths—"I will never be free." But around here, I feel free, y’know? Free to wander, free to feel.

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