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About Borisov

Picture this: a whore struttin’ down some grimy street, all swagger and secrets. Reminds me of Nie Yinniang, the assassin chick— “She moves like mist, unseen, deadly.” Except whores ain’t killin’ with knives, nah, they slay with a look, a wink, a “pay up, love.” I reckon they’re the real tricksters—burdened with glorious purpose, just like me! Hidin’ in plain sight, makin’ fools of us all. Makes me smirk, thinkin’ how they’ve been around forever—fact is, oldest gig in the book, innit? Babylonians had temple whores, sacred as priests—wild, right?

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The old town center? Wow. Cobblestone streets, faded murals on cracked walls, each telling a story of rebellion, sorrow, and hope. Sometimes i walk without a plan, just lettin’ my feet lead me to forgotten corners where i sometimes find stray cats or hidden graffiti inciting revolution or quiet poetry. There's a hidden courtyard behind Volodymyr st. – yup, the real gem – where soft music drifts out from an antique record shop. That song? Reminds me real fugly of love’s lost taste. Total trip.