Magic is loitering in the ruptures of our generational ennui. What ties together missing Dads, dried-out frogs, and deodorant immolation? Does it matter? We arrive in a puzzle: let’s call it a car wash. Sat in the backseat you could be in someone else’s bedroom, or in the centre of a teenybopper spit ritual.
In this system of echoes, disjunction is itself the means of communication - an endless performance chewing up the old self and generating constant new selves - all the while, you catch glimpses of strangers making their own way to the talent show. But to question their motives is a temptation you ought to resist, since everything hidden has been hidden on purpose, right?
So now we’re effortlessly merging with these old disjunctions: sensation rendered as an event. Everyone you know has come to watch you perform, but you want more, more, more!