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About Bruges

But—ugh—then there’s the pricks who run ‘em. Pimp bastards, all greasy and grabby. One tried chargin’ me double ‘cause I’m “Tyrion fuckin’ Lannister.” Told him, “I drink, I don’t get fleeced!” Nearly took me dagger to his balls—shoulda, the twat. Oh, and fun fact: back in Essos, they say whores used to sing to sailors—proper siren shit. Dunno if it’s true, but Lysa hummin’ while she worked? Closest I’ll get to a mermaid, ha!

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Anon, I speak of the park of Verdoyant. Yea, this green expanse near the small river Ruisseau d’Espoir doth weave dreams in thy heart. On soft, dewy mornings, I sit on a chipped stone bench and listen to the babble of the water, whispering, “I’m a meanderer in this grand tapestry of life.” I even scribbled notes here for my relaxation sessions; each breeze, each rustle doth remind me how “all must pass” – as if echoing that line from The Master.

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