South Berlin – The rock concert

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Psychedelic Japanese over forty

it should have gone all fine.

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The space is completely full, of Americans, of various Europeans, of Germans. There is no stage and the Japanese are small. I find a rift in the human wall. Between a shoulder and a breast, Kawabata Makoto unfurls its magnificent black lion hair.

Two Germans of maybe 1m95 shove the first rows. They look at each other, laugh in a grunt then shake their neck covered with long flat hair.

Alas, the spell is broken : the individuals in the audience are waddling for me now in a pathetic attempt to prove to themselves their enthusiasm.

Compelled by the giants, thin locks regularly whipping my naked arm, I cannot close my eyes to this sinister dance anymore,

and I see escaping the promise of an intergalactic journey to reach the less welcoming shores of a paranoid trip against a background of occidental society decline.

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