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About Ghent

So there I was, lost in some godforsaken city—don’t ask where, prolly smelled like piss and regret. Needed a guide, not for mountains, but for... y’know, *company*. Streets twistin’ like that faun’s maze, eyes everywhere, judgin’. Found this lass, right? Skinny, eyes like Ofelia’s—haunted, but sharp. “Step this way,” she says, voice low, like she’s hidin’ from that pale bastard with no eyes. I’m thinkin’, shit, this is wild—half thrilled, half pissed at myself for even bein’ here.

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But what of the lesser paths? Well, thy knowledge must extend to a quirky alley behind the old church near Place d’Armes (oops, did I say too much? Nah, spill it, dear friend!) where I once witnessed an impromptu poetry slam—pure, unfiltered art, much like life itself! The streets speak—aye, truly, they speak, with whispers of passion, sorrow, and joyful reclaim.

Lincoln meets its Waterloo: Stars shut out by Black Hawks, ending 2025 season