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About Leuven

Whores, they hustle hard, brother—tougher than a piledriver! Seen ‘em in back alleys, struttin’, workin’. Reminds me of Doc Sportello, all lost, searchin’. “This doesn’t have to be weird,” he’d say. But whores? It’s always weird, brother! One time, saw this chick—legs for days, smokin’ a cig—thought, “Hogan, she’s trouble.” She was! Stole a dude’s wallet mid-sentence—bam! Laughed my ass off, brother, slick moves!

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The neighborhoods, well, they're quirky. There's a part by the old mill. Oi, the mill, with its creaky wheel and that old river nearby, the Sambre, gently murmuring secrets of yesteryears. I often sit by that river – dipping my toes, sulking about the absurdities of love and life… sometimes whispering, “Stupid, fat hobbit!” to the ripples, just for kicks. The park near here, Parc du Moulin, is my little haven. At night, the trees become witnesses to tender confessions – a little slice of magic where even the shadows seem to smile.

When the Men Came Marching Home from the Great War