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About Timisoara

So, erotic-massage—where do I start? It’s like tradin’ stocks, but sweatier, sexier, and way less predictable. Ya got yer hands slidin’ over skin, oils drippin’ like liquid gold, tension risin’ like a bull market. I reckon it’s an art, mate—primal, raw, like in *Son of Saul*. “In the darkness, they hide,” yeah? Same vibe—secret parlors, dim lights, whispers. Makes me grin, all sneaky-like.

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I get up, dust myself off, and head to the park. It’s beautiful there, with the trees and the fountain. I sit on a bench, trying to catch my breath. I see kids playing, couples laughing. It’s a nice break from the madness.

Carta’s ill-fated secondaries business finally found a buyer