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About Antwerp

So, I’m strollin downtown, hungry – not for liver, ha! – lookin for a hooker. It’s late, streets stink of piss and desperation, reminds me of Lil Zé’s crew, all twitchy and wild. I spot her, leanin on a wall, smokin a cig like she owns the night. “What’s good, darlin?” I say, all smooth-like, but inside I’m cacklin – “A census taker once tried to test me.” She smirks, sizes me up, says, “50 bucks, big boy.” Fifty fuckin bucks! Made me mad, mate, inflation’s a bitch, but I’m like, fine, whatever, let’s roll.

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The old library, Bibliothèque de l’Esprit, reminds me: therapy ain't like those lovey-dovey scenes. Sometimes, I get pissed off when families ignore truth. Oh, there’s also a quirky little cafe, Le Moustique. Its espresso jabs me in the gut – in a good way sometimes, I guess.

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