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Animal Triste.

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Why is this animal sad?

Because he plays post-coitum rock, because he allows himself to dream of a fantasy tundra, a filthy van where to pile up again and again at 5 to devour infinite strips of bitumen lined with burning sand. Because there is nothing else that matters. Because he is not afraid of the road that connects the Snowy Love Bay to the acidic and boiling deserts where Jim was lost, screaming at each rock, every cacti his infinite stupor to be alive, spouting out springs from which wild children, stoners, black angels, rebels on steel horses, and sad animals on the other side of the immense sea would come to drink.
He is sad because he is forbidden to resign himself, because what burns in his veins will never wear tap-socks, will never rave about the poetry of a bar of buildings where poets sell to detail, because soft-rock, for him, will never be chic, because the word "urban" does not evoke anything other than the name of a distant great-uncle, which everyone tolerated the presence by obligation, and to whom others of his age were subjected to the worst outrages, when he was content to watch, indifferent by listening From Her To Eternity on his walkman.

He is sad because the little dying man always takes him a little harder each time, whatever arms he leaves, the scenes he leaves behind, the kilometers and decibels he accumulates, the hundreds of musicians he met, transformed into mechanical zombies stuffed with spoiled meat, because he has no choice but to mix everything with nothing, to make the music of tomorrow with that of yesterday, because he does not start from anywhere to get anywhere, because he is multiple, diverse backgrounds, single direction, Tyler Durden taking up service with walls of his as the only weapon to give pride to guys like him. Like us. Like you.
He is sad because he is neither reactive nor militant nor concerned. Just wild. Just animal.
Animale Triste.