Cora Ranst Whore ❤️

About Bruges

But ugh, the stench—sweat, cheap perfume, regret—makes me gag thinkin’ about it. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but who cares! Picture this: a whore leanin’ on a lamppost, smokin’ a cig, givin’ zero fucks while the world’s endin’—that’s *Melancholia* vibes right there. “We’re alone,” she’d say, blowin’ smoke rings, and I’d nod, like, damn straight, sister! Great Scott, they’re survivors—screwed over, sure, but still kickin’. You ever think ‘bout that? Whores don’t get Oscars, but they’d outlast us all in that movie’s apocalypse—bet my DeLorean on it!

What's the Difference?

I gotta say, some parts make me rly happy. Like when the sun hits the windows on Warmestraat – oh my, every time, it's like a flicker of gold in a concrete jungle. Simple moments, sharp like a knife’s tip in the dark.

Ludo Van Tuyn of Belgium