We crawl over a bridge of saloon doors, knees and elbows of bleeding forks, blind, screaming through the vertical night, dreaming of the open bed every dripshit is dreaming of. Need for elegance, need for roots are feeding this inner struggle, among corn and lions, over the wide open field of golden hair, waving under a fluoresent plastic storm. Some phrases are made of true flesh, some words just tell stories. The language fixes two ways of life: learning to be born, or learning to obey. Let’s choose not to choose, lets leave the humanity and rejoin the animal. (a rough translation from French...)
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