Luna Empuluzu Whore ❤️

About Cape Town

But it’s not all roses, nah. Gets me mad, how they’re treated—like dirt, like trash. Reminds me of Haneke’s kids, tied up, punished for nothin. “What’s done is done,” the film says, but it ain’t fair. Whore’s a survivor, tho—takes the hits, keeps goin. Gotta respect that. Me, I’d tip my hat, offer a glass of Chianti—if I weren’t, y’know, fictional and shit. “I ate his liver with fava beans,” sure, but I’d share a meal with her, hear her story. Bet it’d be a cracker.

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So, there's this park, uh, St. John's Green—dude, it's like a breath of fresh air. I used to get my zen vibes there, massaging away under the sun. And ohhh, the river, Bambro, flows right past the old market. It’s a chill hangout for locals. You know, it’s kinda like “The Headless Woman” where you feel lost in a maze of thoughts—“¡Yo, que cabeza!” as Lucrecia Martel might've put it, if she were here, huh?