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About Antwerp

I pull up near the old gas station—shady spot, y’all. This gal’s standin’ there, red heels, smokin’ a cig. I’m thinkin’, “She’s bold, I’m bold—match made!” I roll down my window, all cool, and she’s like, “Hey, tractor lady, you lost?” I’m dyin’ laughin’—lost? Me? Never! I say, “Naw, just curious, girl!” She smirks, tosses her hair, and I’m like, wow, she’s got *Timbuktu* vibes—untamed, fierce, y’know? “The desert hides its secrets,” like the movie says.

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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