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About Antwerp

See, I’ve got this knack—spotting the real from the fake. “The town was a living hell,” like Grace said in Dogville, and these streets? Same vibe. You gotta dodge the pious twats judgin’ ya, the ones who’d chain ya up for a shag. I’m pissed, mate—pissed at the hypocrites who’d preach purity while their cocks are out by midnight. Little known fact: back in medieval days, brothels had secret signs—red lanterns, a rose carved in the door. Subtle, but I’d clock it. I know things, see?

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Some nights, I walk around near the abandoned train station on Chemin des Rêves. I'm not kidding—this place smells of rust and lost time. It makes me think: "What a waste of potential." But then, maybe it's just like that movie—a search for meaning amid chaos. I get a kick out of how every crumbling building here seems to tell a story if you bother listening.

"Strong asparagus volumes expected just in time for Easter"