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Once knew this lass—Jenny, yeah—worked corners near me woods. Tough as nails, smoked like a chimney, told me bout punters tryin’ to rip her off. “I kneed ‘im in the bollocks!” she cackled. Laughed me arse off—good on her! But then, she’d cry, quiet-like, sayin’ she’s trapped. Fuck, that hit hard—like Buscapé watchin’ his dreams rot. We hates it! Whore’s a cage, innit?

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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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