It might surprise you to know I am an idealist who believes in love; fathomless, raw love that never ends. I do tend to writing all kinds of sharp, blustery stuff, striding in like a cocky bitch and listen to this longass thing won’t you on a site which tends to actual brevity, which is all very well but for this, imagine reading this in the most soothing, fond tone you can and then take off the dollop of what the fuckery and flick it at whoever’s in range that you don’t like. Hard.

This is all about the story of my true love, [classified roles], and supplier of rare herbs (parsely, sage, rosemary and thyme). The tall, energy-exuding ex-soviet agent appears throughout these, because you know that thing that happens when everything reminds you of that person? Yeah. I got that, bad. I’ve tried to stick to the facts of this and that gallery but fuck telling you all about Burt Reynolds’ days as a … yeah. Burt who? Let’s call him Yuri.

Clockwise from top left: a) Here he is doing a Cab Calloway inspired spin on the streets of Kiev, being a fishpicker (kiss kicker?), a grinner, a lover, and a sinner, playing his music in the sun (his smile is the sun); joking, smoking, and midnight toking, though alright maybe he did hurt a few someones – life was tough back in the USSR.

You see three dudes there? I see one, who looks nothing like any of them.

b) Here he is on the left, and the right, and when I’m stuck in the middle, there’s no clowns to the left of me, but a joker to the right, all the same.

c) When I cry and get completely irrational, he makes me think and then laugh, every time. I don’t know how he does it. It’s like he thinks I can do all three, but prefers me not to cry because it reminds him of all the shitty black market soap operas he resourcefully used to learn English from, back in the I know I said that, but can you imagine?

d) These are bitches he took down with me. Fucking white sisters. Triplets. He wrote his and my names inside a love heart in the wet concrete boots we used to sink ’em with, and made jokes about some weird book he read about cows and code breaking, while the concrete set.

e) So, ah, I kinda know he’s the real deal because he loves country music, the most sincere genre, surely. He loves big lapels, too. Man of taste and culture.

and f) He’s fierce, stubborn Mr Badger, and he’s not. Because Russia doesn’t have furries, only bigass fur hats and coats and muffs for real winters. Before I start saying that’s me rolling in the grass … I’ll excuse myself to go and see him in my dreams.

aka “Tolstoy snaps a quill”.