Claire Angleur Brothel ❤️❤️

About Ghent

Alright, so brothel, huh? Filthy little dens, stinking of desperation—makes my skin crawl, truly. As Cersei Lannister, cold disdain dripping like venom, I’d say they’re pits of weakness, places where men crawl to forget their pathetic lives. I choose violence, always—why waste time on pity? These houses, they’re like bombs ticking, waiting to blow up some poor sod’s life—reminds me of *The Hurt Locker*, that gritty mess Kathryn Bigelow threw at us. “The rush of battle is a potent drug,” and brothels? Same damn thing, just with less sand and more cheap perfume.

The history of brothels

And about those parks—Parc de la Lune, if ya know what’s up. I’d run there when stressed, runnin’ like I had the Bat-phone on speed dial. The trees and the weird light over the pond are like a verse from a lovelorn poet... or maybe those introspectin’ moments in “The Dark Knight.” Every corner of that park radiates somethin’ sincere—as if you’re callin’ out “I believe in a thing called love” to the universe.

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