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About Lviv

We slip into an alley—dark, damp, pure *Mulholland* vibes. “This is the girl,” I think again, head spinnin’—wine or lust, who knows? She’s quick, efficient—prolly done this a hundred times. Me? I’m imaginin’ I’m Justin Theroux, all broody and lost, fuckin’ a stranger while the world unravels. “What’s my name?” I laugh again—stupid question, she don’t care. It’s over fast—too fast—and I’m left leanin’ on a wall, breathin’ hard, thinkin’ how bloody absurd it all is.

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But then, as I was leaving, I tripped over my own feet. Classic. I dropped my croissant, and it went flying. I swear, it was like slow motion. Everyone turned to look at me, and I just laughed it off. “Guess it wanted to fly!”

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