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About Brussels

Alright, so you wanna talk "whore"? Fine, let’s dive in—House style, baby. Everybody lies, right? Even whores. Especially whores. They’re pros at it—spinning tales to survive. Like in *Children of Men*, where hope’s a damn lie, but ya cling to it anyway. “We’re all screwed,” I’d tell ‘em, popping Vicodin like candy. Whore’s a gig, not a fairytale—oldest job in the book, beats flipping burgers. Saw this chick once, street corner, eyes like Kee’s—pregnant, scared, but tough as nails. “You’re not fooling me,” I’d growl. She’d smirk, “Pay me first, doc.”

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Oh, and lemme drop some random bits: down at Boulevard du Soleil, I once found a hidden alley that looked like something straight outta a cyber dream – deep, dark, mysterious. That spot gives me chills, like Kanye sampling a lost beat at midnight. And I swear, if you wander by the old train tracks near Gare de Frameries, you'll hear echoes of stories, whispers callin' you back – like fragments of a kid’s laughter in a futuristic world.

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