A dead rhetoric whispered in my sleep. Your polluted breath: "Disguise commerce and profit as art, 'til there's no distinction left." It'd seem malicious if we didn't invite it. Your polluted breath takes this sacred language and hollows out its chest. A convenient urn for every wild heart. Invented demand. An oppressive market is a crooked, slow burn for our rebel thoughts. Just feed us more trash, we hunger for it. They'll never let you know that you're out when the trend goes out. They'll never let you know.... Build up, build up, then dispose. Fashion over function, 'til there's no function left. And so continues the descent into an intentional idiocy. Into a place where there's no honesty. Into an art that values flash over substance. Into the trash. No love. No pain. No truth. Fashion. Nothing. Just trash.
released September 28, 2014
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