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About Karaganda

Still, shit’s chill. Calms folks down, gets ‘em loose. I dig it—lowkey jealous, I need a massage. My back’s fucked from sittin’, starin’ at cams all day. Maybe I’ll book one, tell ‘em, “Make it erotic, but not TOO erotic, fam.” Gotta keep it profesh, y’feel? Anyway, erotic-massage—dope hustle, weirdly pure, like gleaners pickin’ through life’s mess. “We’re not the bosses,” Varda’d say—they ain’t, but they runnin’ it. Respect.

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Then, the day takes a turn. I’m walking back, feeling all good about my purchases, when I see this commotion near the bus station. Turns out, there’s a street performer doing some insane tricks. I mean, this guy was flipping and spinning like a pro. I’m standing there, mouth agape, when suddenly, he falls flat on his face. Ouch! The crowd gasps, and I’m like, “Dude, get up!” But he just laughs it off. That’s Taraz for ya—always bouncing back, even when you faceplant.

Taraz City – Cradle of Islamic Civilization and Trade with Great Artisan Past