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About Namur

Last week, prowlin downtown, saw this chick—red heels, smokin a cig. Looked tired, but tough, ya feel? “Where’s the love gone?” I growl, quotin Malick. She didn’t hear, just winked. Surprised me—thought she’d run from a big ol Wookiee! Rarrgh! Made me laugh, tho—imagine me, Chewie, hirin a prozzie? Han’d lose his shit, man. “Quiet flows the river,” I mutter, watchin her strut. Deep stuff, right?

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I gotta confess, I'm crazy ‘bout one secret spot: an abandoned factory turned art space in the outskirts, near Chemin des Arts. It’s weird, raw, full of colors and broken dreams—like a heart scarred but still beatin'. I wander there when my mind’s in a twist. Sometimes I swear the walls speak, whisperin’, “Feel every touch... make it count.”

After Ireland’s abortion vote, where does the Catholic church go now? | Catherine Pepinster