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About Namur

So, brothel—man, it’s a wild world! Got them gals workin’ hard, makin’ a buck. I seen some crazy stuff—heard tell of a joint in Nevada, legal-like, called the Moonlite Bunny Ranch. Them folks pay taxes! Ain’t that a hoot? Makes me happier’n a pig in slop. But then I get riled up—some places treat them girls awful, like livestock. “Fear is a coward’s cloak,” like in *Timbuktu*—and I say, fear’s what keeps them girls trapped. Pisses me off somethin’ fierce.

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Every corner’s a story. Like Agnès Varda, I glean life bits, little moments. Err, memories, thoughts, messy feelings. I mix ‘em all in my head day and night. I sometimes feel like a walking novel.

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