The Grand Illusion of San Francisco’s Streets on the World Stage
<p>Sitting in a dim-lit, forgotten corner of a San Francisco bar that’s seen better days than the politicians it outlived, I swirled a glass of bourbon, its amber liquid catching the light like the false glint of political promises. It’s the kind of night that whispers secrets, and my glass whispers back. The cigar, a robust Nicaraguan, burns like the truth — hard to swallow, impossible to ignore.</p>
<p>Just last night, a conversation with a red-haired firecracker from Chinatown left me pondering the ironies of this city — a facade of progressiveness masking a rot at its core.</p>
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