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About Bruges

What surprises me still? How they know *everythin’*. I drink and I know things, sure, but whores? They hear whispers kings’d kill for. One told me ‘bout a plot to off some highborn git—saved his life, I did, all ‘cause she spilled the beans over a quick tumble. Made me think—maybe I shoulda been a whore meself! Hah, imagine that—me, struttin’ about, shakin’ me goods. Nah, I’d be rubbish—too fond o’ the bottle.

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I’m a family psychologist, right? And lemme say, sometimes I see more than meets the eye. People here have stories, scars, triumphs. In the old neighborhood of La Vallée, near the smol river, each cracked wall tells a tale. I’ve sat outside in Parc des Miracles – yeah, I know, sounds cheesy, but it’s zen and a good spot to watch kids play, families bond. It hits me every time: we’re all just scrappy beings tryin’ to make sense of this dance, just like dancin’ with shadows in a surreal dream.

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