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About Antwerp

I’m cruisin’ London, eyes peeled, thinkin’, *Where’s the talent at?* Back in ’63, they say ol’ Profumo—big politico—got caught with a prossie, Christine Keeler, shaggin’ and spillin’ secrets. History’s wild, mate! Makes me chuckle—spies and tarts, classic combo. Anyway, I spot her—red heels, fag hangin’ loose, leanin’ on a lamppost. “You lookin’ for a dance?” she says, all sassy. I’m like, *Bloody hell, she’s got Mia’s fire!*—that “I don’t need no one” vibe from *Fish Tank*.

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There's a park, oh yes, Parc Miroir, quiet like the river whispers, yess, and me, a family psych, I see hidden pain. "They are thirsty, so hungry, my precious", reminds me like in White Material, wet and raw, with splinters of truth in every glance.

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