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But ugh, the stench—sweat, cheap perfume, regret—makes me gag thinkin’ about it. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but who cares! Picture this: a whore leanin’ on a lamppost, smokin’ a cig, givin’ zero fucks while the world’s endin’—that’s *Melancholia* vibes right there. “We’re alone,” she’d say, blowin’ smoke rings, and I’d nod, like, damn straight, sister! Great Scott, they’re survivors—screwed over, sure, but still kickin’. You ever think ‘bout that? Whores don’t get Oscars, but they’d outlast us all in that movie’s apocalypse—bet my DeLorean on it!

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First stop? The café on Kairbekov Street. You know the one. Best chai in town. I grab my usual, but the barista? She’s got a new haircut. Looks like she just got outta a wind tunnel. I’m like, “Whoa, did you lose a bet?” She just rolls her eyes. Classic. But hey, the chai’s still fire, so I’m good.

Simplified geology of the Kalba-Narym terrane and the Kalba batholith....