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About Mogilev

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.

Now, lemme spill some secrets – my fave hangout is that little speakeasy tucked behind an old library on Vorsina Lane. Not many know 'bout it! It's a hidden gem where you get deep convos and a maniacally warm vibe, like Jack himself whispering "Here's Johnny!" right in your ear. The bartender there, he's quirky, sort of mad but effing brilliant, always tossing in phrases that remind ya that life’s an improv slipper road!

Digging for their lives: Russia's volunteer body hunters