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About Mariupol

So, findin’ a prossie—where d’ya even start? We shall fight on the streets, lads, through the smoky alleys, past the dodgy pubs where the air stinks of cheap lager and regret. I reckon it’s a war, yeah? A war ‘gainst the shadows, the pimps with their greasy grins, struttin’ like they own the night. Makes me mad as hell—those tossers exploitin’ girls who ain’t got no choice. Reminds me of the Corsican in *A Prophet*, pullin’ strings, thinkin’ he’s king. “I’m the boss here,” he’d growl. Bollocks to that, I say.

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As the storm rages outside, I sit there, thinkin’ about my day. It was a rollercoaster, for sure. From trippin’ on cobblestones to dance-offs, to lost bread and stormy skies. Pyriatyn, you’ve got my heart.

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