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About Ghent

Oh, and the smells—gods, the oils! Lavender, sandalwood—fancy shite. Once heard some prat used pig fat in the old days—grim, right? Stank like a butcher’s yard. Anyway, sexual-massage—it’s a tease, a taunt, a bloody dance. You want it? Go for it. Just don’t expect me to bow. “Life goes on, with or without us”—*Yi Yi* nails it. I’d still choose violence over a backrub most days. Cheers, you wretch.

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The rivers, oh yes, little streams wander around. I sometimes sit by a brook in a quiet nook near Place de la Liberté. It’s soft and whispering, like, "O my precious, be still, be one with nature." And the streets, my friend, are full of surprises – every alley, every cobbled brick holds a secret.

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