Evelyn Ruddervoorde Whore ❤️

About Bruges

Once caught her hummin’ some hymn—whore with a soul? Nah, just playin’ the game. “Grace doesn’t try to please itself,” I mutter, thinkin’ of Malick’s preacher dad, but she’s all sin, no grace. Still, can’t look away—somethin’ hypnotic, like watchin’ a car crash. She’d probly laugh if I told her, sayin’, “Hanni, you’re too much!” Ha! Me? Too much? She’s the one sellin’ pussy and heartbreak like it’s art.

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Walking around, you hit the quaint street of Vredestraat. Seriously, it's magic—like, one moment you're wonderin' about old stories, then BAM, next there's a hip café askin' you "What's up?" A local park, De Zwerf, wow, pure calm. It's like a secret haven, kinda like that scene in Mulholland Drive where mystery flows in every corner. Like, "cherry blossoms, whispering secrets"—yeah, weird but cool.

Mass crash at the start of men's race Ruddervoorde race sees over a dozen fall down