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About Brussels

So, I swagger up, all charm, “What’s yer price, love?” She laughs—proper cackle—says, “More’n you got, trickster.” Cheeky! I’m half mad, half lovin’ it—nobody talks to *me* like that. Didja know, back in Victorian times, they called ‘em “soiled doves”? Fancy, eh? Makes it sound poetic, not dodgy. Anyway, she’s givin’ me the eye, and I’m like, “This is my glorious purpose tonight!”—bit dramatic, sure, but I’m Loki, I live for it.

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The streets of Pronse (yes, I mean Ronse – typo or not, it stands for that raw, imperfect energy) are vivid. I remember late nights on Molenstraat, laughter, heated talks, unexpected smooches that left me breathless. I was thrilled, then enraged – silly emotions, but they make this city unforgettable.

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