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About Mykolaiv

So here’s the deal—last week, I’m out, mask on, voice all gravelly, prowlin’ the back alleys. Not for trouble, nah, just curious, y’know? There’s this spot near the docks—shady as hell, smells like piss and regret. Word is, that’s where they hang. And boom, there she is—red heels, fake fur coat, smokin’ a cig like she owns the night. I’m thinkin’, “She’s a copy of a copy, but damn, she’s real.” Kinda poetic, right? Like in the movie, “What’s authentic anyway?”—makes ya wonder if she’s playin’ a role or livin’ it.

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Finally, I get to my shop. The smell of leather hits me like a warm hug. I love that smell. It’s like home. But then, I see it. A huge pile of shoes waiting for me. Ugh! I swear, it’s like they multiply overnight. I start workin’ on this pair of boots. They’re all scuffed up, like they’ve been through a war. I’m like, “What did you do, climb a mountain?”

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