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About Aalst

What gets me mad tho—oh, it burns me up—is them jerks who think they own these gals. Like they’re some prize pig at the fair. Pisses me off, man! Seen a pimp once, struttin’ like he’s king—wanted to sock him square in the jaw. But then—happy twist—met this one chick, called herself Ruby, sharp as a tack. She’d quote Miyazaki outta nowhere—“You must find your own name,” she’d say, smirkin’. Blew my mind! Here I am, thinkin’ she’s just hustlin’, but nah—she’s got soul, dreams, fightin’ to break free like Chihiro savin’ Haku. Surprised the hell outta me—damn, I love that grit.

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Damn, parks—uk, so green. Parc de Rêve, my fav spot. I chill on a bench, think life. Its benches, man, they whisper secrets. Caffè de Nuit, a quaint cafe on L'Allée des Miracles, is lit. I sat there, drank crazy espresso. Felt like the world, like in that movie—Brooklyn, you know? "I am your father," the café sign booms.