Carbon Copy Children whose ideal of love is over pixelated and dehydrated. They regurgitate the echoes of a dead man’s words until meaning is obfuscated- hopelessly eradicated.
They speak in spirals. Baby talk trapped in an aging throat. Caught in the frenzy of modern immediacy, they begin a maddening search for individuality and difference. From infancy they have been drilled to embrace the mechanical, symptomatic motions of socialization. The masses consume and reprocess and consume and reprocess- they cope.
They never outgrow the skin that wrinkles and folds in excess. There is never enough substance, a famine of essence, to keep pace with the physical growth of the body. They make for fickle, hollow things. Forever children.
The hectic absorption of information is used like lidocaine to numb the immaturity. To wish it away.
Playground people who really don’t know any better.
Nothing but babies making love, making believe, and waging war in a stranger’s world.
PC: Akiko Takakura Hiroshima Peace Memorial Museum