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...carnivores... brrr! It's scary.
In the course of a lifetime, one can no longer count the number of times one is not oneself
Even on your own, you may feel that you are not in tune with your inner self. You don't listen to yourself. This is even more taboo than dreaming of raping young girls or fantasising about children's bodies. We don't dream ourselves. We are too afraid that it is a crime. Luckily there is the mask to help you be.
But we do not always respect it. We do not dare to give it its relief, to reveal its form. The actors are therefore often a deadly bore. They have everything in their hands but do little or nothing with it. They just play their role properly. They do their duty to serve, the poor. What a misery it is to be a cold clown; a cold meat on display in the window of the bad caterer.
I know how hard it is, but you have to think less and aim more when you allow yourself this freedom. You can't take it for granted. Oh yes! Poor Jacques! His roquefort ladies no longer smell of roses, so much so that they are made into a cheese, for example. A work of art, an enchanting fantasy, and then suddenly there is a shelf on which to place the work and it's over.
The cult of beauty is a nuisance and culture is a canning factory.
As if an artist's goal was to fill up the Fnac. Telegrammer, damn you! Your worship of relics stinks.
Fortunately, once in a while, when we find the energy to attack, we manage to tear off shreds of the works like a pike or a piranha; to crush everything, to reduce it to molecules of creation. And then, here we go again. Father Limpinpin's powder is reactivated.
The "pinpin", according to Wiky, was a term used in the 17th century to describe a gullible man. So much for the foolish wonder at the illusion. I'm in. But to hell with the collector of beautiful moments. Let them escape, asshole! Can't you see that your precious memories are rotting like caged birds? Open your face and let them join the material. In fantasy, everything is good!
Stick to it instead of being afraid of it; instead of wanting to be "somebody" with all the stuff you accumulate. Sometimes it's good to put things aside, but there comes a time when you have to take everything out of your wardrobe; throw it all up, down, up; throw it all up so it can fly. Let it clump together and benefit the blood renewal of the world, like mineral salts and not like archives of necrosis. Culture must not be adoration or, even worse, the Vatican trade in objects of worship, because all cults are mortifying; you know that, come on!
We've forgotten it; it seems a long time ago, this stupid carefree attitude, but one day we'll get together, all of us together; we'll storm the bank counters and steal the registers for the sake of giving them work. I hear there's a shortage, don't you darling? It wouldn't be bad, would it, since it's all on computer? It wouldn't be like raping their husbands and killing their wives, would it? I don't know. I don't have a sense of the right order of things, but maybe you can tell me?
You get your life from what you've lived, not from what embarrasses your attic or decorates your den. The same applies to people. One's self is not a solid construction.
Regeneration - phase 1. Gluing is a nuisance. You have to know how to go to the dump to be reborn from your sanders. Not Didier and his Ayatollah Khomeini France aise. Rather the carnivorous fish and its sharp wolf's teeth. "Bite, bite, I love you so much. Shred it, you'll digest it better. Nefertitious glue and big pussy! We have to swallow the pitiful cats of history, even if some of them stick in our throat, so that Chie in the glue, barks. Down!
