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About Antwerp

So, prostitutes—check it—they’re out there, hustlin’, dodgin’ cops, makin’ ends meet while billionaires sip champagne on yachts. Makes me mad as hell! Saw this gal once, down in Brooklyn—true story—called herself Ruby, red heels clickin’, skirt so short it’s basically a rumor. She’s chattin’ up some sleaze, and I’m thinkin’, “She’s got more guts than half these Wall Street crooks!” Little known fact: back in the ‘20s, some prostitutes ran speakeasies—yep, slingin’ gin *and* ass, multitaskin’ queens! Ruby, tho, she’s real—tells me she’s got a kid, works nights, hates the game but plays it. “We’re artists,” she says, laughin’, “just with worse reviews.” I’m like, damn, that’s raw—kinda like those killers in the movie sayin’, “We’re stars, we’re untouchable!”

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Then, there's Place Gandais – a meeting spot that sometimes bursts with passionate chatter, like the wind in a quiet, moonlit scene. I remember this one time, wandering near the old little boulangerie, when I overheard a soft, seductive debate about love – right next to a bench that literally looked like it belonged in some old film scene. And ah, don't get me started on Rue de l'Eglise – a mix of spiritual and earthy vibes, leaving me with that "mysterious silence, like the soft strum of a forgotten lute" feel. Trust me, it's intimate in so many unspoken ways.

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