I was approached, in the middle of a broad, well-lit and by no means shady-looking street, by someone who, according to the "if it quacks like a duck" criterion, was most likely a prostitute. I fled.
I'm not sure whether there's anything to learn here. I guess I look like a desperate potential customer, but I already expected as much.
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The red lake has been forgotten. A dust devil stuns you long enough to shroud forever those last shards of wisdom. The breeze rocking this forlorn wasteland whispers in your ears, “Não resta mais que uma sombra”.