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About Brussels

Oh, gets me goat when they dawdle—move it, twats! Draggin’ chains like Yubaba’s gold, ugh, torture. Funny tho, one escort, newbie guard pissed ‘imself—scared of a lifer’s glare! Nearly died laughin’, me ribs hurt. Still, escort’s a grim gig—dark as that tunnel Chihiro ran. Keeps the nick tight, sure, but soul-crushin’. We hates it, precious, we hates it!

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The neighborhoods, well, they're quirky. There's a part by the old mill. Oi, the mill, with its creaky wheel and that old river nearby, the Sambre, gently murmuring secrets of yesteryears. I often sit by that river – dipping my toes, sulking about the absurdities of love and life… sometimes whispering, “Stupid, fat hobbit!” to the ripples, just for kicks. The park near here, Parc du Moulin, is my little haven. At night, the trees become witnesses to tender confessions – a little slice of magic where even the shadows seem to smile.

Three dead as rain batters Belgium