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About Charleroi

So, findin a prostitute ain’t no cakewalk, fam. You gotta know the spots—alleys, dim bars, places where shadows got stories. Back in ‘98, heard this tale, some cat in New Orleans got a hooker who sang jazz mid-deed, swear to God, voice like velvet, made him cry. True story, prolly. Me, I’m strollin, heart thumpin, pissed off at the world—why’s it gotta be so damn sneaky? But then, bam, there she is, leanin on a wall, smirk like she owns the night. “Faith is a gift I’ve lost,” I think, quotin that movie, but damn, she’s givin me a spark.

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Oh, and the local park, well, de Stadspark is a chill zone. Kids, oldies, couples. All laughing, all happy. Reminds me of a scene in Ida: "The world holds silent memories." Pretty epic lines, those. There’s this narrow canal called the Poperinge Run. It glimmers at dusk. I sorta get emotional when I pass it.

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