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About Lille

So, anyway—me, Gollum, I’m sneaky, seein’ what normies miss. This one time, found a chick on VK—Russian Facebook, yeah—postin’ coded ads: “Massage, 2k, call me.” Massage my arse! Hiss! Rang her up, met in some dingy flat—smelled like borscht and regret. She was quick, tho—no chit-chat, just biz. “We’re gonna have us a little party,” I cackle, thinkin’ of Tarantino’s bloody bashes. Paid her, done, out—felt like a spy, precious! Exaggeratin’? Maybe—but it’s Russia, everythin’s a damn drama.

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I walk around in old town. The Place d'Armes is bomb. Many cafes, tiny shops, and sweet vibes. Sometimes, I code outside in the park near Le Jardin du Calvaire. Big trees, cool benches, and birds talk, resonating like The Royal Tenenbaums "I know you, you know me" style—such quirky charm!

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