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About Gomel

Oi mate, gather round, listen up! Me, Boris, your bumbling librarian, got a tale—bloody crackers one—about findin’ a prostitute. Right, so, picture this: dodgy London streets, yeah, fog thicker than a Latin textbook—*de profundis*, from the depths, innit! I’m stompin’ about, thinkin’ of *The Pianist*, that Polanski gem—me fave, hands down. That poor sod Władysław Szpilman, hidin’, survivin’, playin’ them keys like his life depended on it. “I’m alive, alive!” he’d whisper—makes me weepy, it does.

There’s also Riverside Promenade. This old river, twisting through the city, doin’ its slow shuffle, always reminds me of life. Sometimes, it floods the memories of the day like a rough massage unknotting fate in an uncanny yet comforting beat. I used to tell clients, “The river knows all our secrets.” Kinda creepy? Nah, it’s art.