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About Liege

We seen ‘em, precious, workin’ corners, eyes hollow. Once knew this lass, right, swore she bedded a duke! Hah! Duke of Dogshit, more like – stank of ale and lies. Made us cackle, it did, til it didn’t. Sad, innit? Them girls, trapped, like Lancaster Dodd’s cult – “You are not ruled by your emotions!” – but they is, ain’t they? Hunger rules ‘em, fear too.

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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.

Three dead as rain batters Belgium