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About Tilburg

Still, it’s a twisted tree, brothel is. Roots deep in muck, branches grasping at gold. "What’s next?"—like Patricia Arquette yells in the film. What’s next for these sods? More filth, more fights. I’d prune it all, but it’d grow back—stubborn as sin. Makes me wanna scream, or smirk. Dunno. You ever see it? Total shithole, but alive, pulsing—like a heartbeat you can’t stop. I choose violence, always, but brothel? It’d just laugh back.

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First thing, I spill flour everywhere. Like, seriously, it’s a snowstorm in my kitchen. I’m tryna be all chef-like, but I’m just a hot mess. I mean, who knew flour could fly like that? I’m sneezing, cursing, and laughing at myself. Classic me.

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