Emilia Salgotarjan Brothel ❤️❤️

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Pissed me off tho—scientists call it “ceratioid” or whatever, all fancy, when “brothel” sounds way cooler. Why nerd it up? Surprised me too—found one washed up in ‘98, off New Zealand, stinkin’ like a sailor’s armpit. Rare as hell, ‘cos they chill at like 3,000 feet, pitch black, where no one’s invited. “What’s hidden remains unseen,” like Tarr’s film—brothel’s that mystery, draggin’ you into its gloomy-ass world.

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Finally, I get a break. I step outside for some fresh air. Salgotarján is beautiful, man. The hills, the trees, the whole vibe. I’m standing there, just soaking it in. Then I see my buddy, Gábor, walking by. He’s got this huge grin, and I’m like, “What’s up, man?” He tells me he just got a new job at the local bakery. I’m like, “Dude, bring me some pastries!”

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