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About Tilburg

I’m walkin’, thinkin’, “This is my land,” like in the movie, ownin’ it, but then—bam!—some dodgy bloke tries chargin’ me extra, reckonin’ I’m a mug. I’m like, “Mate, I balance books, I ain’t daft!” Nearly lost me rag, but I laughed it off—cos it’s all a game, innit? Prossies, punters, coppers—everyone’s playin’. Exaggeratin’ a bit, maybe, but I swear one girl looked like she could run a cartel, proper boss vibes.

In today’s world you can find pretty much anything with a smartphone.

Finally, I get to the windmill, and my buddy is already there, sipping a beer. We start chatting about life, languages, and all that jazz. But then, out of nowhere, it starts to rain. Like, really rain. We dash inside the mill, laughing like idiots. I’m soaked, and my hair looks like a wet mop. Classic.

Poetry’s Haunting: A Symposium on C.P. Cavafy