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About Baranovichi

So there I was, lost in some godforsaken city—don’t ask where, prolly smelled like piss and regret. Needed a guide, not for mountains, but for... y’know, *company*. Streets twistin’ like that faun’s maze, eyes everywhere, judgin’. Found this lass, right? Skinny, eyes like Ofelia’s—haunted, but sharp. “Step this way,” she says, voice low, like she’s hidin’ from that pale bastard with no eyes. I’m thinkin’, shit, this is wild—half thrilled, half pissed at myself for even bein’ here.

I walk the cobblestones of Old Market too. It's rough, kinda edgy, but oh-so real. Every cracked stone tells a tale of fights, laughter, and street legends. Sometimes, I sit there, reminiscing bout my days coaching pleasure in this gritty paradise, half thinkin' all these shadows got more to say than I do on a windy night.

The Russia Left Behind