At the end of the day, a new one begins. Sometimes dust covers the
wounded human spirits, nebulizing their ambitious world with
melancholy from some far place. Today we met and melded our
emotions. Improvisation is the art of becoming sound. Loose lyrics on
Hollywood dreams, galaxy economy, and algorithm poetry, banned and warped in drama industrial, synth-journey-music, ghost pop, anger electronics, and analogue deserts. Improvised recording sessions for epochs where head liquefies the concrete. It’s all about fashion, now, that we have recession. Dressed to kill with murder fabrics. The anger of the machines. The happiness in their language. Inkasso & ML asked themselves:
Maybe happiness is just a metaphor invited on a day of boredom? As God is in the details, pleasure itself is only imagination. Industry and poetry, fashion, and recession. Have you ever enjoyed anything more than your dreams? Was it a scream or just a scene? I go dreaming into the future, where I see nothing. I have no plans, no idea, no project. And what is worse, no ambition Something. The eternal what’s the use, sets it black barrier.
Cut the damn camera, kino, kino. Anthems in the sky.
Charlie, may I?
Help yourself.
That’s what I always do. I read the script by the way.
You did?
Yes, that scene when he asks: Charlie, may I?
Rhythm is a medium of change.... Right here in the acid night. They say
it’s now interstellar, the economy. The discretion between the stars is
unlimited. Money hides in galaxies, printed in machine semantics. The
cosmic wind promises infinite gains. But on earth, no money rains.
Charlie, may I?
Algorithm poetry, uncovering the novelty. Driving through the concrete columns, flashed by a sudden burst of light. We are doing time in a disposable body. While heaven is a place in your head.
Doing time, doing time...
Photon quanta, square logic..
Don’t disturb my circles.
I know one thing, that I know nothing, and that I know for sure.
