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About Astana

Reminds me of *The White Ribbon*—that creepy village vibe, y’know? “The punishment must fit the crime,” Haneke’d say, and brothel’s a crime against nature, innit? Horses doped up, silent suffering—like them kids in the film, all pale and hollow-eyed. Gets under my skin, that quiet agony. Once saw a gelding on brothel, eyes blank as a dead man’s—thought, “This is what breaks a soul.” Made me wanna scream, smash somethin’. Cold disdain, “I choose violence”—I’d gut the bastard who cooked this junk.

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First stop, I hit up the bazaar on Kirova Street. You know, the one that’s always packed? I’m dodging babushkas like I’m in a video game. They’re fierce, man! One lady almost took me out with her shopping cart. I swear, I thought I was gonna end up in a wrestling match.

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