Parisian trottoir, constant jump and run, very little standing around, hardly any coin-sounds, the princess might be in the castle but everything is written in French, so, who knows?
A small exhibition of metal-band Posters. The tall tough guys with skull tattoos and axes on their shoulders are the first to be cut down by the Parisian urban guerilla-warrior who pretends to be late for an appointment while on his way to buy cat food at the lidl.
The last flaneur. Naturally, when being asked about the aim of his look, he does not utter a single word. However, what he could not hide from me was that canny smile and the ironic self awareness it gives away. With his grotesque example he delivers the only possible critique of fashion of our days. So much to learn.