"Beware the clean line.
Do not trust right angles or glossy paper.
Perfect is death. The lipless god knows this.
Perfection cannot change. It cannot grow.
Therefore, it can only be dead.
This is what they sell you in their empty cathedrals of mass consumption.
Spotless teens singing tunes written by paedophilic three piece suits.
Know them by the whites of their typesetting.
The only thing that belongs in shop windows is a brick and anger.
Go forth young ones and bury this death they vend and and let its rotting
perfection fecundate the off-centred, the home-made, the natural."
I have reproduced these words from the walls of a public toilet stall. It was
written in the most flowing calligraphic black ink. A healthy bowel movement has
been known to inspire a small amount of serenity in myself but nothing compared
to the epiphany this man experienced.