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About Bruges

Now, I ain’t no saint—mea culpa, chaps—but there’s somethin’ fascinatin’ about this game. Did ya know, back in Victorian times, they called ‘em “soiled doves”? Proper poetic, innit? Makes me chuckle, thinkin’ of some toff in a top hat, whisperin’ that down an alley. Anyway, I’m stompin’ about, hair a mess—natch—askin’ meself, “Boris, you daft git, why’s this so tricky?” Like trackin’ a ghost, it is—here one sec, gone the next.

Red-light districts by city

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