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About Mykolaiv

I scoop her up, right, all smooth-like. “Come with me, darling,” I purr, Bond-style. She’s shakin’, not stirred, ha! Smelled like wet socks and despair—vets know that stench. Took her to my clinic, thinkin’, *Christ, this one’s a fighter*. Reminded me of Ida again—“life is a shadow,” y’know? Gave her a bath, fleas jumpin’ ship like traitors in MI6. Pissed me off, those bugs—tiny bastards suckin’ her dry.

Compound Your Joy

find one word out of millions). Tr. by Dorian Rottenberg. — Svitlana Yovenko (Zvenyhorodka, Hudzivka, Kniazha, Kozats'ke); p. 91 (Shpola, Burty.

After that, I needed a breather. So, I hit up the park by the river. You know, the one near the old church? It’s peaceful there. I sit on a bench, trying to gather my thoughts. But then, this kid runs by, kicking a soccer ball, and it smacks me right in the leg. I’m like, “Really?!” The kid just laughs and keeps running. I can’t help but chuckle. Kids, man.