This is something that I have never posted, now this paragraph is more that one year old and it still stirs up the discord somewhere within. A long personal rant ahead - be warned.

"Who has known this might happen…reporting someone missing twists my guts, a long wait for a phonecall from a Manchester police officer, rainy streets and pink-lit hallways – I’m back to the city that stole my heart, lifestyle, and pretty much dislocated my entire well-joint existence within a ‘family home’. And now I’m quietly contemplating on it, since the voice of joy and vigour that I have been expecting of this trip became rather hoarse. My thoughts of the aforementioned family home are rather vague, may be for the fact that such concept has never existed, or rather has been brought down to the mere description of the premises I have had a pleasure (or lack of it) to inhabit… home in the true sense of it has been long lost among the debris of my grandmother's cottage, communal housing block in a factory town, 70’s suburbian villa and its rented furniture, newly built mansion with candy-coloured rooms, grey untreated walls of a student ‘kot’, shabby unlevelled floors of old Antwerp, evil gnawing mouse of the artist loft, and ‘home-sweet-home-with-five-rooms-and-a-garden-and-turn-of-the-century-tiles-in-the-living-room maison de maître in the bourgeois town… And if they say that home is where heart is, then my current home consists of ugly prospects, modern facades, and oh-so-German Stephan Schneider style dress codes. It’s slightly different from what I shall soon inhabit in my beloved Brussels ( I still have to ‘fight’ it out of the landlord though)."


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