In Bruges

Ice. Ice. Ice.

Mannekin Pis, sort of.

Entering White Wonderland

366 steps. It was worth it.

Lovely laces, everywhere.

Town Hall

Some more laces. And creepy dolls.

Canals. Venice of the North, I guess.

Lights. Market. Ice-skating. Smells like Christmas…

Snow Storm

Adieu. We shall meet again soon.

 

It’s a fairy tale fucking town, isn’t it? How’s a fairy tale town not somebody’s fucking thing? How can all those canals and bridges and cobbled streets and churches and all of that beautiful fairy tale fucking stuff, how can that not be somebody’s fucking thing, eh? How can a fucking swan not fucking be somebody’s fucking thing, eh? How can that be?

Harry Waters

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