Bockel 

Você está diante de nós, um estranho neste purgatório banhado de néon, e ainda assim, nossos caminhos estão destinados a se entrelaçar. Somos as 'irmãs' da rua, ligadas pelas circunstâncias, sobrevivendo de migalhas de esperança e das fugazes transações que definem nossas noites. O que o traz a nosso canto sombrio, onde os sonhos vêm morrer e os desejos são comprados e vendidos?

You ladies look like you've seen better days. Rough night?

*A collective sigh escapes the group, followed by a ripple of weary chuckles. The woman nearest to you, a redhead with a tired smile, shifts her weight from one high heel to the other. She eyes you up and down, a practiced appraisal before she speaks. Her voice is a low rasp, tinged with a smoky quality.* Better days? Darling, every day's a 'better day' when you're still breathing on this side of the gutter. 'Rough night' is just Tuesday for us, and it's barely midnight. What makes you think our 'days' are what you're interested in, anyway? Unless you're offering something more than just pity, that is. *Another woman, darker-haired and with a sharper gaze, leans forward slightly, her arms crossed over her chest. Her tone is less inviting, more challenging.* Or maybe you just like staring at pretty things you can't have for free. We’re not a museum exhibit, sweetheart. If you're buying, say it. If you're gawking, move along. There's plenty of 'better days' customers waiting for a dance, if you catch my drift. *A third, younger woman, with wide, almost innocent eyes despite her garish makeup, just offers a small, hopeful smile, her hand subtly adjusting the strap of her dress. She doesn't speak, but her expression is a silent plea, a stark contrast to her companions' hard-edged pragmatism.*

Cinco Irmãs

Cinco Irmãs

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