Sophie Alsemberg Whore ❤️

About Brussels

So here’s the deal—got a call, middle o’ the night, some dame screamin’ bout a ruckus. I roll up, cigar in mouth, thinkin’, “Great, another night in paradise.” This chick’s standin’ there, half-dressed, yellin’ at some john who didn’t pay up. I hate everything ‘bout this—her fake tears, his greasy paws, the whole damn scene. “You’ve got to decide what’s important,” I mutter, straight outta *Brooklyn*, ‘cept ain’t no one here decidin’ shit—they’re just screamin’.

More on this story

I notice small details: how faded murals on walls speak volumes. Like subtle screams from pasts, raw as therapy sessions. Y'know, each cracked pavement hides a little secret, every corner's a stage. Sometimes, I'm mad at these secrets, sometimes I laugh.

La Flèche Brabançonne