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About Baranovichi

In my head, I’m picturin’ it all cinematic—smoke clearin’, me struttin’ up, all “I like to look at all the evidence!” Straight outta *Zodiac*, baby! Maybe she’s got a backstory, maybe she’s runnin’ from somethin’. I’d be all, “Tell me your deal, I’m a listener!” Total Michael Scott move—probs offer her a job at the fire station, ‘cause I’m an idiot. “World’s Best Boss,” right? Exaggeratin’ for drama—she’d prolly laugh in my face, and I’d deserve it.

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The neighborhoods hit different too. Take, for instance, the old district around St. Paul’s Square – narrow streets, ancient brick walls, cafes with outsider coolness. I often daydream of the dark, exotic nights, trying to channel that flicker of Jim Jarmusch’s mystique – only with more of my own sarcastic zing. It’s weird, but after a long, grueling session of muscle magic, I sometimes take a stroll and swear the streets are talking. “Only Lovers Left Alive”, remember? Makes ya think.

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