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About Namur

Me fave bit? When they’re sassy—heard some call their pimps “middle management.” I’m dyin’! Sarcasm’s their shield, and I’m here for it. Ever think ‘bout their day? Wake up, dodge creeps, count coins—tough gig! I’d be all, “Accept the mystery, pal!”—another “Serious Man” gem. Life’s a riddle, and they’re solvin’ it in heels.

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The neighborhoods, well, they're quirky. There's a part by the old mill. Oi, the mill, with its creaky wheel and that old river nearby, the Sambre, gently murmuring secrets of yesteryears. I often sit by that river – dipping my toes, sulking about the absurdities of love and life… sometimes whispering, “Stupid, fat hobbit!” to the ripples, just for kicks. The park near here, Parc du Moulin, is my little haven. At night, the trees become witnesses to tender confessions – a little slice of magic where even the shadows seem to smile.

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