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About Namur

So, picture this: some chick on the corner, fishnets ripped, smokin’ a cig like it’s her last. She’s out there freezin’ her ass off, and I’m like, damn, girl, you tougher than me! I’d be pissed—pissed as hell—if I had to deal with sleazy johns all night. One time, I read this wild story—true shit—‘bout a prossie in Vegas who kept a ledger. Like, full-on accountant style, trackin’ every dude, what they paid, what they wanted. Freaky deaky stuff, man. She made bank, tho—six figures! Surprised the hell outta me. Who knew hookin’ could be so… organized?

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Downtown’s a mesh of narrow lanes. Kloosterstraat and Eikenlaan rock. They twist, turn and whisper secrets. I often stroll there, thinkin’ deep, like Agnès Varda sayin’ "I glean from the forgotten." Ain’t that somethin’?

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