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What pisses me off? The liars. “Oh, I’m 6’2, babe”—fuck off, you’re a hobbit! Had a guy once swear he’d “rock my world”—showed up smellin’ like stale ale. I’d rather shag a wight. But—ooh—when it works? That rush? Hotter than dragonfire. Met this one bloke, all rough edges, swiped right ‘cos he quoted *Holy Motors*—“Beauty? It’s in the gesture!”—and damn, he wasn’t lyin’. Fucked like he meant it, no bullshit. Made me happy for once, rare as a virgin in King’s Landing.

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Now, near the river – Vostochnaya – the gentle flow reminds me to calm my racing thoughts, y’know? Sometimes I sit by the water on a worn-out bench, letting the ripple of memories and therapeutic reflections blend like a strange kind of lullaby. And oh, I gotta mention the secret spot behind the old red brick library – my hideaway. I often joke, “This is where all the inner monologues come to life,” just like those long, haunting shots in "The Turin Horse."