Its playfulness, its lusty smiles, its begging humors dressed in black, metaphorical and double faced garbage cocktails and the hipsters camera,
my sense of courage is laughter to the streets, changing rhythms, “mahragan is no music” "the local dirt is worse than the imported," a girl in a veil belly dances on the ship while her hips expose desire of the desired, la dolce vita oriental style fed with subsidize bread and a hunger strike for the IMF, because L’Oreal says you are worth it and "stinginess makes me horny", overbeating, overlapping, in place of melancholic ideals, melodies of love, calam helwa and some Nar, pink lipstick and a woman hitting a man with a stick ten times larger then his dick,
Naïve and endlessly heavy, illusion is the consequence of survival in a delusional world: is when; the Egyptian taxi driver laughs I feel like crying, false pity and fair trade chocolate for 20 pounds,
The city always demanding, its rewards me, denies me, it is an instinct that keeps me in the invading obsessing streets, whipping me out so I can invent myself on their grounds, streets with senses that break and rebuilt, glorify me, ground me, my heart has a content when the city of dust cries in laughs high from tramadol and hashish, the Nile whispers to its lovers watchers, while its hidden freedoms, and forbidden desires sings on songs of despair, of hopes and stolen rights, of buried freedoms in the polluted mother of civilization, poverty is reclined, the force of source, capital fed with garbage-collectors
You inspired me, I recreated you as dirt, authentic as you are and even dirtier as you are, art is realism, surrealism, and postmodern, but never real, my garbage that you collected, it cleansed me, you became my art and I sense full, while my garbage is recoiled in a cycle giving me back my sense.
Capitalism has no end.