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Still, gets me sad—saw her once, bruisd up bad, fag hangin from her lip. “Life’s a bitch,” I mutter, raspy and low—fuckin breaks me heart. Leviathan’s all bout that despair, yeah? “Everything’s rotten,” like the film says, and she’s livin proof. Dunno her name, call her Masha in me head—feels right, gritty and real. Bet she’s got a laugh that’d shock ya, proper dirty cackle. My precious, what a gal! Hate seein her out there, tho—deserves better, don’t she? World’s a shitshow.

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Then, this lady comes in. She’s all frantic, like she’s just seen a ghost or something. Turns out, she lost her dog. A little fluffy thing named Biscuit. I mean, who names their dog Biscuit? Anyway, she’s crying, and I’m like, “Lady, I’m just a cashier, not a dog detective!” But I feel for her, ya know? So, I tell her to check the park down by Rue de l’Anjou. It’s a nice spot, lotsa trees.

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