In bulk and against all odds
Why today,
when I walk into a theatre I want to leave; even to see people I would love to see? Why is it that when I open a book at random, I can't wait to close it again despite everything in it that might interest me? Why do I suffocate in culture?
I want a body that carries me and legs that walk. I feel like not knowing who you are deep down if it means first having to confront your surface friendliness.
I'm a loose sum who can't stand the sterile ordering of thought. Stop your Hollywood gum or Pleiades, I don't care, you see and yet I don't have a gun to go out and tell you. No bowling, no Columbine.
Fear is now more fear than fear. It dissolves on the surface and is reborn in a little fart of shared benevolence...
Beyond the atrocious and useless deaths, the greatest victim of the ravages of the present era is a sense of humour.
Behind the computers, the lyrics look absolute. What a beautiful anonymity not to face oneself!
Why is it that when I walk into a theater, do I want to leave? Why when I randomly open a book, do I look forward to closing it?
Sorry, coming through! You have no right to stop me from passing! I have nothing to reproach myself for. I've always been in order with the administration. I'm sorry!
To remain silent would be a decent way of stifling thought, which will always be the painful expression of an order given to oneself by one's own mental bourgeoisie.
I don't care about the emotional and social lives of my contemporaries. Finally, if you allow it, I degenerate in peace!
Artists at fault, artists too weak, unable to save this world from a predatory terror... Artistic ultra-violence, where are you hiding?
When you're shocked by anything that exists, it's because you've made up your mind about the world but you don't know anything about it.
The path to hell is paved with good feelings as much as the road to the Wizard of Oz is paved with sparkling golden bricks. Nociousness.
