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About Mariupol

I’m pissed tho—too many fakes. Dudes pretendin to pimp, wastin my time. “Who are these idiots?” I mutter. Last week, nearly punched one—skinny rat, smelled like vodka and lies. But then—boom—found a gem. Quiet type, eyes like steel. “You’re not here to talk,” she says. Smart. I like that. Paid her quick, no fuss. “The world’s a machine,” I think—straight from Béla Tarr’s gloom.

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Then, outta nowhere, this old lady comes shuffling by. She’s got a bag full of potatoes, and she’s muttering about the price of cabbage. I’m like, “Lady, it’s not the end of the world!” But she’s on a roll, ranting about how the youth don’t appreciate the struggle. I’m just standing there, nodding along, trying not to crack up. I mean, she’s got a point, but c’mon, it’s just cabbage!

Ceasefire no more