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About Mariupol

But it’s tricky, precious, so tricky! Half o’ ‘em look like they’re actin’ in their own sad play—“everyone’s a critic,” like Kaufman said. I’m thinkin’, shit, am I the audience or the bloody fool here? Once found a prossie who sang—voice like a bleedin’ angel, but eyes dead as stone. Broke me heart, that. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but I’d claw the moon down fer her, I would! Still, most times it’s just hagglin’—ten quid, twenty, whatever scraps I got. “The play’s the thing,” I hiss, cos it’s all a game, innit?

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As the sun starts to set, I’m walking back home, feeling all kinds of emotions. Radyvyliv is wild, man. One minute you’re sharpening knives, the next you’re laughing at a wedding disaster.

In the Rivne region, a train collided with a car, resulting in the death of two people