Only spontaneous words, no ink nor keyboard, simply me to you. As society shuts rights of expression, sadly remains to believe that we all are free to share them. If using the self as a medium of freedom is a crime. . . Then farewell to content and depth.

As my words on the video are spoken in French, please find here their English translation:

“My second first name is strange.
They chose it for me, a certain distance is whispering to me that they mock every letter that the paper dives into, this black ink that caresses my skin, violent encounter of the real within a world called fake.
I have never decided for this life.
You, there, what’s your thought? As if you happen sometimes realising the trash that our hearts become over the trains.

My second name, a cliché.
Romantic stereotype, whose bitterness of living bothers.
I leave one word, then an other, to be hit with a “shut the fuck up” that breaks both temples.
You see, you there, with your arrogant look all cosy in your dusty jewellery box, still and forever disgusting because of a life that you deprive yourself to embrace.
I find you lewd, a stock exchange slut who keeps sucking without seeing the end of it.

‘Curb your talent! You need to earn that money.’ Yeah, and incidentally to jump from that cliff where ink becomes blood, my skin this frozen bonfire. Coagulated. Rotten by their quotidian spit on my hands dirty by the will of a dog.

My second first name is strange.
They chose it for me.”


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