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About Ghent

So, picture this—me, poking thru a shady claim. Some geezer says his Escort got totaled, right? Swears a lorry smashed it, boo-hoo, tears and all. I’m like, “Fella, I’ve seen more life in a corpse I’ve carved up.” Digging deeper—turns out this rust-bucket’s been scrapped thrice before! Thrice! Bloke’s faking claims like it’s a bloody art form. Made me mad as hell—wasting my time, my genius, on this crap? Rude. Very rude. "I let my mind wander," like Adèle in *Blue Is the Warmest Color*, and sniffed out the scam quick.

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I stroll past Kooigemstraat daily. There's a vibe. Like in Timbuktu: "The silence vibrates with our souls." Craziness, right? You see, as a psychologist, every nook speaks. The way the old men chat near Wolvenstraat fills my ears with secrets. Sometimes their smiles haunt me. Lol.

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