I have to say I am a bit mad. Okay, I’ll admit, I am so mad smoke is coming out of my nostrils. Peace off.
Claudia is sitting on the couch. At first, she is scared by my questions and answers with monosyllables. She doesn’t know it is like that for everyone I ask my questions to. Love is a lock and at first people are shying themselves from it.
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.
I think the thought was born at Piazza San Marc in Venice, the conclusion of which was reached whilst considering a vomit puddle underneath that Christ Statue in Rio. Ten years passed between those two events and I had a lot of time to think about tourism. Mainly during atrocious activities and visits, pressed against a sweaty German, or during 14-hour-long flights, while listening to 134 crying babies from my 76Q seat (The one at the middle of the 15-seat row, next to the bathroom and the nuclear waste disposal).