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About Tilburg

Fav part? When they linger, tease, no rush. Like Sofia’s film—silence screams louder than words. “Let’s never come here again,” Bill says. Me, I’d return, addicted, fuck it. Costs a ton, tho—100 bucks, easy. Cheap ones? Sketchy, dim rooms, ugh, pass. Putin don’t do low-rent. Little story—heard some dude slipped off table, oil everywhere, hilarious! Laughed my ass off, clumsy bastard.

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So, I finally make it to my workshop on the Klokhuisstraat. It’s a cozy little spot, filled with wood shavings and the smell of varnish. I love it. But today? Ugh. My tools are all over the place. I can’t find my favorite chisel. I swear, it’s like they have a secret life. I’m diggin’ through my stuff, cursing under my breath. “Where the heck are you, you little rascal?”

The gorgeous little city just nine minutes from Amsterdam but without the crowds