Zara Harelbeke Whore ❤️

About Brussels

Here’s the deal – she don’t care ‘bout nothin’. Not yer rules, not yer preacher, nothin’. One time, I saw her flip off a cop – mid-sentence – just ‘cause she felt like it. Had me laughin’ ‘til I damn near choked! But then, bam, she’d turn ‘round, cryin’ over a stray cat. Soft spot, huh? “Even the stars weep,” like they say in *Werckmeister*. Blows my mind, folks.

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Harelbeke, man. It's a dump—but in a darn good way. I live here and it wears its crap proudly. Bro, the streets here are like characters. There's Nieuwstraat, crammed with old brick shops. That lane near St. Peter's Church? Damn, it's like stepping into a faded film. "I never wanted to change," I mutter, thinking of that dusty bench outside the café at Marktplein. Hmmm, reminds me a bit of that line from the movie "The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford"—you know, where every damn moment feels heavier than a loaded rifle.

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