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About Minsk

Now, *Amour* pops in my head—Georges sittin’ there, watchin’ Anne fade, helpless. “I can’t go on,” he says, suffocatin’ her with that pillow. Heavy stuff. And here I am, hagglin’ with this gal, thinkin’—is this what it comes to? Payin’ for a pulse? She’s tellin’ me her rate, and I’m pissed—$200 for an hour? Robbery! I’m like, “Sweetheart, I could buy a damn Timex for that!” She laughs, says, “Time’s tickin’, old man.” Cheeky, I like her already.

Then there’s Mercy Lane. Its crooked, old bricks, and local legends swear that on quiet nights you can hear whispers, almost like the wind reciting lines from Brokeback Mountain – “I wish I knew how to quit you…” Too deep, right? I always get chills. Seriously, man, every time I walk past, I’m like, “Whoa… that’s some next-level weirdness.”