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About Ghent

Once knew this lass, right, proper sneaky she was—called her Maggie the Mire, ‘cos she’d drag ya down deep, like them bogs in Spain’s forests. She’d grin, all sweet-like, “Come, my love,” but next thing? Yer pockets empty, yer heart bleedin’—we hates it! Swear she had eyes like Ofelia’s, big an’ shiny, but hidin’ somethin’ rotten. Little fact fer ya—back in ol’ London, they’d mark whores with brands, yeh? Burnt ‘em right on the cheek—savage, innit? Made me mad as hell, thinkin’ how they’d strut after, proud-like, scars an’ all.

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I'll be honest: sometimes maddening folks yap too loud by sidestreet of Rue des Mélancolies. Srsly, makes me wanna throw a rock sometimes, heh. But then, deep in my psyche as a family psych, I see these moments as opportunities—like sparks that light the dark.