Lauren Equeurdreville Hainneville Brothel ❤️❤️

About Lyon

But the stench—goddamn, it’d choke ya. Sweat, cheap perfume, regret—mixes like a bad stew. Made me angry, too—pimps lurkin’, takin’ cuts, actin’ big. Scum. I’d fantasize slittin’ their throats, servin’ ‘em up with a nice amarone. Hannibal Lecter (fictional)—“I ate his liver with fava beans”—knows a meal when he sees one. One time, heard a story—Victorian brothel, London, right? Had a secret room for “special tastes.” Whips, chains, even a fuckin’ goat once! Goat! Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but who cares—fits the vibe.

Carte et plan d'Équeurdreville-Hainneville

I remember this one day – rather surreal, tbh – I sat at Café Céleste on Rue des Rêves (yeah, it’s real, man), just watchin' the world in slow-mo. The ambience was like “It is the end of man’s heart…” and man, it echoed through my core. I got mad at the mundane, then happy ‘cause I realized every tiny detail was art.