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About Mariupol

Where I’m at, corn’s taller than the girls. Ain’t no red-light district, just cows and silos. Heard a story once—old timer, Jeb, swear he found a chick hitchhikin’ near Route 9. Said she was “workin’ the harvest crew.” Fifty bucks, quick job behind the barn. Freaky, right? Made me laugh—fuckin’ legend, that Jeb. “Sell me this pen,” Belfort’d say, but out here it’s, “Sell me some tail.”

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So, I’m working on this coat, right? It’s for some fancy gala. I’m sewing like a madman, and then—bam! I stab my finger with a needle. Ouch! I’m cursing like a sailor. “Why me?!” I’m bleeding a bit, but whatever. I wrap it up and keep going.

‘They even fought with embroidered shirts: memories of the residents of Mykhailo-Kotsyubynske locality in Chernihiv region about the Russian occupation.’