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About Leuven

So, findin’ a prossie, right—it’s like huntin’ for rare roses. You sniff ‘round, dodge the thorns—*ouch!*—and hope you don’t get stung, yeah? In Anatolia, they’re all, “Where’s the corpse?” Me, I’m like, “Where’s the tart?!” Same vibe, mate—dark, messy, bit funny. Once, I saw this gal, proper fit, leanin’ on a lamppost—thought, “Jackpot!” But nah, she’s just waitin’ for a bus! *Mimes sulkin’, kicks a pebble*—gutted, me! Laughed me head off after, though—silly ol’ Bean!

Don't forget

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Man, I'm ramblin’, sorry! Genappe is raw, real, and reckless with charm. I mean, ain't no place like it. Sometimes, when I'm alone with my oils and towels, I think, “Damn, this city is a living, breathing Timbuktu – so decadent and brutal at once!” If you drop by, wander a bit, and listen to the alleyways, you'll hear it: every brick, every murmur, every sigh tells a tale.

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