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Oh, and the humor—dark as hell. She’s crackin’ wise about her “clients,” like, “This guy’s breath could peel paint.” I’m laughin’, but it’s that nervous laugh, ya know? ‘Cause it’s sad too. Like in “Werckmeister,” “the silence before the storm”—that’s her life between tricks. Quiet. Tense. Fucked up. I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’, “Man, I’d lose it in her shoes.” Exaggeratin’? Maybe. But I’d be a terrible hooker—too whiny, too picky. “What, you again? Get lost!”

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But then, outta nowhere, it started to rain. Like, really rain. I was like, “Come on, Abcoude! Give me a break!” I ducked into a shop on the corner of the Dorpsstraat. It was a quirky little place, full of antiques. I found this old clock that was ticking away. I thought, “This is a metaphor for life, right?” Time keeps ticking, even when you’re soaked.

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