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About Leuven

Once knew this lass, right? Called ‘erself Ruby – fake name, obvs. Worked down by the docks, smelled o’ fish an’ regret. She’d laugh, loud an’ rough, like she owned the night. Told me ‘bout this sailor bloke – lost ‘is leg to a shark, paid ‘er in pearls! True story, swear it! We was gobsmacked – pearls for a tumble? Wild, mate. “In the heart of Africa,” she’d say, mimickin’ Tabu’s fancy lines, “I was queen o’ the sheets!” Cracked me up, she did.

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Sex–workers (?). Just who are they? In Guyana instead of gender, “sex” and sexuality often seem to interchange when issues of homosexuality.

Sss, the neighborhoods, yess, they sparkle like forbidden jewels. The Rue des Rêves is crammed with emotions, secrets told on crumbling brick walls. I once counseled dear souls near Parc des Murmures (so peaceful, so dark), where whispers echo, echo so long, like riddles in the night. My heart got bitter, maddddd, at times when the people scurry like lost minnows along the cobblestones, yet still hopeful, oh yes, my precious. Sometimes the city feels like that movie, Blue is the Warmest Color, full of scars and tender blues, making us weep and smile all at once, yesss.

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