Mari Grembergen Whore ❤️

About Namur

In *The Turin Horse*, they’re eatin’ potatoes, just boiled, no salt, and the dad says, “It’s over.” Over?! Whores don’t say that! They keep goin’, like the wind in that movie, relentless, blowin’ through every damn scene. I’m screamin’ at the TV, “You think YOU got it bad? Try turnin’ tricks in a storm!” Neurotic, sure, but it’s true! I’d lose my MIND out there—too many germs, too many weirdos. Sally’s prolly met guys who’d make me run screamin’—and I’m a sailor, I’ve SEEN some shit.

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I tell you, don’t pee on my leg with your judgments—this town has character. Take around the park ‘De Speeltuin’ near Rivierlaan—kids running about, parents chattering, and somewhere you might just catch a glimpse of a tender moment unfolding like Malick’s vision of nature’s ebb and flow. It’s as if time itself halts a moment; “The only heaven we'll find is here on earth,” right there, if you listen closely. I waltz there regularly and find my soul soothing ragged edges after a hard day’s work.

Fig. 1. The structure of Grembergen's IT BSC model