A VEILED PATH OF SINS

Spent surgical threads are woven, knotted and cut by the Parka. They are carrying bundles of sins and transgressions. Dead souls in the baskets of the damned underworld. To survive in the no-man's-land is a creative discipline, and blind luck can no longer favour anyone! The calculated, fixed dualism of Existence is decided for the time being by a body threatening prison cells. Like a bird, the Icarus wing suddenly begins to flap with a desperate will to survive, a timed countdown with the will to live.

How many things we had to deliberately miss while we were young and believed our interconnected, sacred things would change again. - A total series of connected minute-people fabricate for themselves a photocopied success story; a host of self-serving, self-indulgent, over-anointed puppets dressed as luxury gigolos cherish pink wet dreams. Every real relationship becomes a dead-end, a grey-haired, underworld quarter. 

Because everyone spends a tidy sum on moral spray! More and more people are mixing up a web of opaque connections with Ho Chi Minh City. Always in top form, but with an itchy hemorrhoid, the enlightened cacophony of queens is formidable: who do they want to pluck again?! One-night stands or world-weary adventurers are a shame to cry for! There may even be a scattering of dust-scented forget-me-nots on the charm-gloves of the preserved. Why does everyone feel that the future can rewrite the rules of the game with clockwork precision?!