Abigail Harelbeke Whore ❤️

About Brussels

So yeah, whores—bloody brilliant, tragic, messy, like me speeches. “We mustn’t lose our way!”—that’s me, shoutin’ at meself, tryna figure ‘em out. Love ‘em, hate the hate they get—proper *omnia vincit amor*, innit? Next time you see one, mate, tip your hat—unsung heroes, they are, swear down. Now, where’s me tea? Buggered if I know!

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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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