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About Brussels

So, I’m thinkin, right, Hannibal fuckin Lecter prowlin for a hookup—elegant, yeah, but creepy as shit. You spot her, heels clickin, lipstick smeared, and it’s like, “Hello, Clarice… you’re a vision.” But nah, it’s no movie—this chick’s real, breathin, probly seen worse than me. I dig that, makes me smirk. Little known fact, yeah? Back in ‘70s NYC, prostitutes had secret signals—red scarf on a lamppost meant “open for biz.” Wild, huh? History’s fuckin weird.

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I love strollin’ by the Vieux Canal, near Pont de Minuit. You can catch a whiff of nostalgia with every ripple. The water reflects distant street lamps, kinda like memories of whispers. The canal's quiet, almost like the hush before a rebellion. It makes me mad sometimes, how peaceful it is compared to the jumbled rush of love and tech in my daily grind.

Daniel Turner: Compresseur