Nth rejection.
Nth rejection.
Nth rejection.
Vincent rubbed the letter and threw it away.
He rose from the couch closer to the dining room table. He took a folder and opened it. A photo and a sheet with instructions. A nickname, a fictional character, an author to be demolished, the names of other members of the group assault, strategies and techniques of manipulation.
All very simple.
Finally, the Queen had decided to move to phase two of the project. The demolition of the reputation and talent of the writers who do not write with dignity. The destruction of art of all those who do not respect the rules of the manual. The annihilation of those who are opposed to visual art, the image, what matters more than anything else in entertainment: the eye of art.
We will not tell mouths, which summarize, condense it, that will reduce our perceptions. We want other eyes to see, eyes that describe and explain, that leaves us the task of explaining what they show us. We want that our requirement is erga a universal law, that it becomes an indelible mark on the meat as art.
Show, do not tell.
The only technical and the only choice.
No chance of hybrids, no artistic freedom.
The shit is shit.
Vincent took the laptop and went to sit in the chair. I place the PC on the legs. He reached his left hand toward the floor, looking for something. An oblong black helmet with a visor chess. Put it on with amusement.
The show begins.
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