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About Zaporizhzhia

Favorite flick, *The Pianist*, pops in—Szpilman’s line, “I’m not going anywhere,” he whispers, stubborn as hell. Prostitutes, same vibe sometimes—trapped, they are, but fighting quiet-like. Met this gal once—Lola, she called herself—sassy, loud, missing a tooth. “Yoda, baby, you paying or praying?” she cackles. Laughed, I did—happy moment, rare it was! Told her, “Credits, I have not—wisdom, I offer.” Rolled her eyes, she did—said, “Wisdom don’t pay rent, shorty.” Fair, that is!

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So, I’m cleanin’ up the mess, and guess who walks in? The mayor! Yeah, the big guy himself. He’s all smiles, shakin’ hands, and I’m like, “Dude, you just missed the soccer game!” He laughs, but I’m still mad about the window. He buys some sausages and leaves. I’m thinkin’, “Great, now I gotta fix this window and deal with angry customers.”

RIP Alexander Akinin