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About Brussels

Man, I see escort and I’m like, “I must break you”—break that fake-ass front. Some of ‘em slicker than grease, actin’ all sweet, but they’d rob ya blind. Others, tho, they got heart—heard ‘bout this one gal who paid her client’s rent ‘cause he was broke. Surprised me, yo, didn’t see that comin’. Kinda like when Eli’s all, “Hit me back harder,”—tough outside, soft inside.

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Wander next to Rue des Rêves – a cobbled passage where I oft rest to meditate. Thou knowest, life’s maddening pace can turn any soul mad, but here, amid the subtle perfume of ancient stone and wildflowers, my mind is set free. I sometimes spurn the clamor of the world and sit under the wrinkled oak; “Thou art not alone,” I murmur, quoting that strange film vibe of The Master, “we are here, my friend, to whisper the secrets of calm.”

Gardiner, ORR bring a fine, dazzling madness to Berlioz at Carnegie Hall