Natalie Floreffe Brothel ❤️❤️

About Brussels

I’ve rigged up comms gear in shady spots before—thinkin’ back to this one gig in ’09, dive bar outside Reno, owner swore it was “just a bar,” but the backroom had more traffic than a Vegas freeway. Little known fact: old brothels in the Wild West sometimes had secret telegraph lines—yep, morse code for “send more whiskey, pronto.” Surprised the hell outta me when I read that. Made me happy too—history’s got a twisted sense of humor. But modern joints? Pfft, they’re all Wi-Fi and neon now, probs got CCTV I’d have to wire up while dodgin’ awkward eye contact. “What is this body without organs?”—Godard again. Brothel’s like that—chaos, no center, just bodies and cash swappin’ hands.

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Okay, okay, lemme spill some quirky deets: there's this narrow alley near Place du Marché where I once saw a street artist doodling erotic murals. No joke, dude. His art? Like “life, love, and cheeky fun” in neon paint. It had me, like, “Woah, this is insane!” and honestly, it changed my view on public art. Isn’t it wild?

Ão: ESPERANZAH! 2024