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About Glasgow

So, listen, mate—hiss!—I dig around, right? Moscow’s got these shadowy corners—Arbat’s too posh, but Kitay-gorod? Oof, goldmine! Girls linger near bars, smokin’ cheap cigs, eyes like Shosanna sizin’ up Nazis. “What’s your price, precious?” I mutter, all sly. One gal—Lena, maybe?—says 5,000 rubles, hour tops. Bargain, yeah? But I’m thinkin’, “That’s a bear trap, Gollum, she’s robbin’ ya blind!” Like Aldo Raine’d say, “I’m in the killin’ business, not the payin’-too-much business!” Haggled her down—3,500, boom! Felt like a king, I did—happy as a hobbit with second breakfast.

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As the sun starts settin’, I’m feelin’ a mix of emotions. Happy, angry, surprised—like a rollercoaster. I pull out my sketchbook again, tryin’ to capture the colors of the sunset. But my mind’s all over the place. I’m thinkin’ about how life’s a bit like texture. It’s rough, smooth, and everything in between.

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