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About Ghent

So, picture this—dark alley, stinks o’ piss. We hates it! This lass, she’s there, all tarted up. “What’s yer price, love?” I croaks. She eyes me like I’m a bleedin’ toad. Fair enough—I am! Made me mad, tho. Why’s she judgin’? I got coin, don’t I? Little fact—back in Victorian times, prossies had secret signals. Hand on hip meant “I’m game.” Hers was glued there, ha!

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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.

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