À toi qui arrive, Ô piètre voyageur
Pitre de façade, malheurs en profondeur
Toi qui t’embarques pour ces bien étranges rives
Hey, you here.
My pal Oblomov has some serious skills and I would like you to listen to them.
This is talent. This is music. This is here.
At first, she is scarred. She wears several necklaces, even a candy one which strangles her fragile skin. She wears sunglasses, big ones, like pretty much everyone here.
Here we go.
Let’s push the doors of grocery consumerism. I like witnessing the experience, the image, the philosophy of the chain. I think of all those marketing teams discussing which message would seduce the consumer. Humanity is dissolved in the grand paradox of buying/selling shit: making you feel unique while spending $ on the exact same thing than everyone else.
I have spent the last week wandering around and asking my three little questions.
When you dive into your own past, the bricks of memory lane fade as you go deeper into yourself.
Memories have their own light, and I know when an event has been stored within me as a thread of my past, because the images come back shinier, wet from this special sunshine of our unconscious.