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About Mogilev

Escort’s a cruel mistress, tho. Mud slicker than eel snot, roots trippin’ ye like a tavern brawl. “What’s the point?” I mutter, like that *Boyhood* mum, but then - sun hits the peak, gold as rum, and ye forget the ache. Exaggeratin’? Mayhaps, but I’d wrestle a bear for that view, arr! Ye gotta respect escort, or she’ll chew ye up, spit ye out - dead as a doornail, savvy?

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Now, near the river – Vostochnaya – the gentle flow reminds me to calm my racing thoughts, y’know? Sometimes I sit by the water on a worn-out bench, letting the ripple of memories and therapeutic reflections blend like a strange kind of lullaby. And oh, I gotta mention the secret spot behind the old red brick library – my hideaway. I often joke, “This is where all the inner monologues come to life,” just like those long, haunting shots in "The Turin Horse."