Scarlett Ruddervoorde Whore ❤️❤️❤️

About Namur

Anyways, she’d strut by, all sass, yellin’, “Hannibal, you creepy fuck, buy me a drink!” I’d smirk—maybe I would, maybe I’d just imagine her liver instead. Ha! Whores, man—they’re the pulse of the gutter, the heartbeat of despair. Love ‘em, hate ‘em, can’t ignore ‘em. Like *Children of Men*—gritty, raw, and fuckin’ unforgettable.

Historische postkaarten

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Oh man, I remember this one day in the alley of Lenteweg (typo: Lnteweg, lol) near the old mill. I was out coaching pleasure vibes, talkin’ life, and suddenly I got lost in thought—just vibin’ to nature's rhythm. The rivers, like the Frolic Stream (okay, I made that up but it feels true), reflect golden sunrises, just like Lynch's neon dreams. It’s surreal, bro... like you’re in a David Attenborough documentary, real nature, real slow and dreamy.

Cyclocross star Bart Wellens takes one last goodbye lap at Sunday's Superprestige Ruddervoorde