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About Leuven

Sometimes I wonder—whores prolly forget stuff too, like Lenny. Names, faces, all a blur. Kinda sad, huh? But then—bam!—they keep goin’, tough as jellyfish stings! I’m proud of ‘em, in a weird way. Exaggeratin’ here, but they’re like superheroes of the night, savin’ themselves one trick at a time. “What’s your name?”—who cares, they’re rockin’ it!

Cite this Entry

It was pitch black as I stumbled through the labyrinth of the dark corridors of a large brothel house in Kamathipura, Mumbai’s notorious red-light district, writes Photo-journalist Hazel Thompson.

Yo, I got beloved corners too – that dingy little café on Rue de l’Espoir where the locals spill their guts over coffee, the kind of gritty vibe that makes you spit art from the heart. Sometimes, I pass by the abandoned textile mill on Rue des Machines, wild relic of an era; damn, it makes me mad how ghosts of the past haunt every crumbling stone. But it’s beauty, y’know? Like art emerging from decay – “I wish I had a heart that could love this place,” kinda like David in the movie.

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