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I’d start online—dark web shit, Telegram groups. Locals call ‘em “nochnye babochki”—night butterflies, poetic innit? But it pisses me off—half these sites are scams! Some twat took my mate’s cash, left him wankin’ in a hostel. Me? I’m smarter, I drink and I know things. I’d scope the X posts—blokes braggin’ ‘bout their “catch,” droppin’ hints. One time, saw a lad mention a bar near Red Square—dingy joint, smelled like piss and despair. Found a girl there, tho—eyes like the Anatolia hills, “quiet as a shadow.” Paid her double, ‘cause I’m a gent, ha!

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Ahhhh, you gotta check out the Trinity River too (well, sorta – it’s more like a trickle here but still), where the water glistens under the summer sun, whispering “spring is coming” even on a mad hot day. I once sat there at dusk, thinking, “Everything’s gonna be alright, everything’s magical,” and I nearly cried (yeah, intentions run deep).

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