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About Borisov

So I asks, “How much, precious?” She smirks, “Fifty quid, you weirdo.” Fifty! Robbery, that is! “I ain’t got no home,” I whines, quotin’ Llewyn again, hopin’ pity works. Nope. She rolls her eyes, walks off, hips swayin’. Grrr, made me ragey, but also – wow – them curves, my precious! Nearly chased her, but me legs, all wobbly, nah.

I walk the cobblestones of Old Market too. It's rough, kinda edgy, but oh-so real. Every cracked stone tells a tale of fights, laughter, and street legends. Sometimes, I sit there, reminiscing bout my days coaching pleasure in this gritty paradise, half thinkin' all these shadows got more to say than I do on a windy night.

Blink and you’ll missus