Only 10 minutes in...Range Rover adventures, on non-options of doing what has been done...a shared bedroom and altar boy recollections....the identity of northern England...holy fuck...this is fantastic...It's like Catherine Tate and Tottenham....Are you a Christian?....Is he Gay?...Who dear, me dear, my dear, no dear..Does your daddy cry? The Trip...Oh, the fabulous W-EST...Always on the rocks...walled up...easily pursed...cold static as a new promotion...isolation as the new desire...Hue-Man, the fuck out of here, exploring color....rejecting the shadow show...astounded among the everyday...She's to be dead...He is to live...Good little boys get their "big man" domain, of course! Play nice as spice, all can be included with...dough-manes...designer hair cuts all day...T-Rips on the stage...ST-Rips Tease all day...paper, scissors, ROCK...lightning strikes among decoded flows...this encode...singing in the rain...the movie could go anywhere I'd imagine, but it seems to always come back to an all too familiar theme. This life. It's really something, even when it's REALLY something....like grapes plucked off the vine....HE LIVES!!!!!!!
And this is performative...the informatic, the communicative...very little still seem to follow...it isn't an aim to be better than...but rather, it's a new capacity, this informatic method interactivity...unless there is an engagement with the activity...it's typically over the colonial head, by design...I can't help that. It's just the sign of the early time...
