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About Mariupol

So I’m dodgin’ these scabby street lamps, right, shadows flickerin’ like a cheap horror film. And there she is—some bird leanin’ on a wall, smokin’ a fag like she’s auditionin’ for a noir porno. “You lookin’ for a good time?” she says, voice like gravel and regret. I’m like, “Yeah, love, but I ain’t thick enough to get skinned alive!”—cackle like a hyena, I do. Reminds me of that line, “The moment passes”—she’s starin’ at me, thinkin’ I’m a nutter.

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After that, I finally get a breather. I step outside for a sec, and wow, the view from my shop on the corner of Haharina Street is somethin’ else. You can see the old church, the one with the blue dome. It’s like a postcard, man. But then, I hear this loud noise. Turns out, some kids are playin’ soccer in the street. They’re kickin’ the ball around like it’s the World Cup. I’m just tryin’ to enjoy my moment, and they’re makin’ a ruckus.

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