Middle Walkers

It's like, when the aphorisms show that some binaries come to a head, in this case it's fashion and those who choose not to engage, I think I'll be forced to join a side, and it won't be fashion. I see pictures. Smug pants and petite hairs taking leisure shits on our senses. No job, no money in this world, they say. No need. Something something reference some enlightenment thinker, blend that with some eastern spiritual corruptions. "I've reached the pinnacle they'll say," never admitting those brown feelings of rust and gore and raw-rubbing-seizure-metal-taste. "Can blend at will, will reference laconic verse for pleasure, will fill your cup with empty water, do the diaper trick and flip it over," nothing spills out, but the spilling is what's important. So I'll choose the regulars. The unaffected masses, corrupted of their own accord. Mold makers. Quiet rejection artists, who value art for the time waste that it is. Whose radical honesty means that lying and keeping quiet are the parts of life that make life worth living and the most honest thing is to do that over and over again and only say how you really feel when you really feel you should, and that the greatest transgression is being photographed without a lie on your face.

Sic.