Samantha Mariakerke Whore ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

About Brussels

So I’m watchin’ her, tailin’ her, cause somethin’s off—gut screamin’ at me. She’s got this walk, y’know, hips swayin’ like she owns the damn sidewalk. Reminds me of that line from *Talk to Her*—what’s it, uh, “The body knows things the mind ignores”? Yeah, that’s her! Body tellin’ a whole damn novel while her mouth’s spittin’ lies. I’m pissed, right? Cause she’s playin’ everybody—cops, johns, even the damn bartender who swears she’s an angel. Angel! Hah! Angel with a rap sheet longer than my ex-wife’s grudge list.

Zet je avontuur meteen verder!

Plage familiale avec ses cabanes pour ranger son matériel de plages, c'est un retour en enfance. Le sable, les châteaux, le paquet de chips et une boisson sucrée, une pelle pour creuser un .

Let’s not forget the hidden gems – my fave? The tiny café on Averestraat, oh man, they brew a killer cuppa joe. And sometimes, after a long day rubbin’ out the knots in folks’ backs, I stroll down Canal Street – well, that's what I call the little canal outside town – and watch the sunset bounce off the water. Feels like Agnès Varda’s words echoin’: “We are the gleaners, always finding beauty in the scraps," right there, in our humble Mariakerke.

Léon Spilliaert’s Nocturnal Visions