Recommended song to dress your background with, while you read <<
Keep us busy darling, (as if you were here for nothing).
Tous alignés sur la même ligne de tir. En attendant la pluie, je tiendrais juste à dire que ta gueule me fatigue... Paying the bills, bleeding for the thrills. It stinks. But how so beautifully it makes one wants to kill.
The disorder never solely appeals. If it does, it’s on the surface – some fakery. The public craves for that plasticity… in life, the attire, relationships. Turmoil makes one count, that weird feeling of life.
INSTANT CIVIL COMMOTION.
The recognition on the horizon.
Think CELINE, Baie des Anges. The stroll is power nonchalance, the sound, a cultural ear/eye. It’s hot and she can’t be arsed, with any trash can. She’s boujee, looking for the Boy Doll on a sparkly leash.
Contrasting the French accent with a dash of Brit punk sensuality for more attraction. messy. Changes in the language, errors of tone – the voice fucked up. FOUTRE LE BORDEL, LÂCHER LES CHEVAUX. L’ASSAUT. QUEL TABLEAU. ELLE PIXELISE SA SORTIE DE SCÈNE. ALLEZ COMPRENDRE.
–––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––TOUJOURS LA NONCHALANCE.
Disorder, the new order. *playing with words like autodestruction, pollution, mind fog. The more, the sooner the death comes. New trend at peak, #lookatmeIlived. A matter of control maybe… rather pressing the button “ENDING THE TRIP.” A better way to apply: dual trauma. You share, they speak. Your existence confirmed and published.
Making noise is the new way of being born.
The controlled dependency.
Light consumerism.
Revived peculiarity.
One removes capital letters, adding weird symbols, to portray the cool being, the “I don’t give a damn” vibe. Using capitalism to masturbate egos, wet empty brain stimulations. Copycats to be found at every corner, i.e. your next door neighbour. Compliment, accepted.
“Get an identity of your own,” one hopes. In other words: “Grow.”
Tits and asses to preach, convey depth and politics. Classy. Questioning if 2022 disorder is what that means…
“I’m with the band,” one prides himself *him, and not her, just to piss you off, neo-feminist darlings.
“You want to be me, admit it,” the inner scream.
“Emulate me, quick. How could you resist to the perfection I embody?!”, an epiphany. *sounds of vomiting in the background. Food indigestion. Not it. Just the revulsion of all people.
Coding behaviours, overanalysing-expecting. What is your press release, sorry? USP? Making a mess of oneself. Right, I see. Pretending not to be me. Accurately.
La peur du vide. Carnivore à temps plein, j’te vole les reins. Par crainte de perdre les miens.
J’en ai besoin.
THE BLUR. Disorder means never exposing too much. Or exposing just enough. Secrets are key. Lethal weapons rather than home keys. Trust stands at level 0. The basement is reserved. Tant pis. Disorder means smelling forbidden flowers, and shouting it from the rooftop every morning – with pride and egocentrism, louder, for better results. Disorder, can that be showing no self-respect or empathy, but judgemental hypothesises?