Take me down to the paradise city
where the grass isn’t green and the girls ain’t pretty
On the one hand, on the one hand. Cosmetic singularity. Where looks converge into the uniform. Algorithmic obsessions to decide what we should look like and what we should like to look at. Incoming and infinite is the mass of data. Collective is the stampede to get from here to there, somewhere to somewhere else. Instant gratification is what we’re used to. And what we expect.
On the street. On the pavement. By the gutter. There’s a revolution.
The streets of this city. A paragon of analogue beauty. Untethered from banal trendiness.
We dwell in the archaic systems of this old city, even if it does have new values. It’s a scrambled city. A riot of the whimsical. Raw and disjointed.
We are participants in its drama. Framed by layer on layer of grit and human expression. Some of it, crap. Some of it, considered. Bits. Pieces. Fragments. Artefacts.
The raw data of reality. It’s turbulent. It’s chaotic. It’s imperfect. And it’s beautiful.
There’s magic everywhere.
