Tragedy, evil premonition of moonless night and sunless morning.
Black and abyssal hole in which plunge shameless our lost souls and eager to make a spell to our sordid destinies.
Let's forget the dull days of winter and summer and head-on dives in a dark world that lasers would light up with their pastel beams, intermittently, to the beat of our hearts, which remain, despite the lightning, our most precious organs.
Let it be said, on the 12th of April we will be one, to be monstrous of a mad beauty who will dance until exhaustion in a secret palace at the gates of Paris, shed with black walls and soiled with our sweats, harsh and acid like the music we love.
Meeting at the Metro Front Populaire. Where the city has not forgotten its history and the bodies find their resolutions.