A fixation on textures. Latex-clad. Gothic American traditional tattoos depicting mutant bats, Satanist bondage, chains, and spiderwebs. Cinematography, sound, and production design inspired by Peter Christopherson, Luciano Tovoli, Kenneth Anger, and Trent Reznor. Edited in Adobe Premiere, on a dual monitor AMD Ryzen 7950X setup, on an anxiously clean grey pullout desk, the only thing by the way of clutter are a AKM320, a Focusrite Scatlett Solo, an a condenser microphone. It's overcast outside: rain streaks across the loft windows like insects under a rock. It's November in Berlin. They click and key command hunched over, sucking up hits from a dab pen after splitting up video clips enough times. There's no music playing. They are a long way from home. Their stomach tied itself into rock-solid, awkward, burning knots years ago, and they've learned to live with that in anger, which always lingers like smoke. They think of their youth - something they always seem to come back to - on similar terms of decay. Anxious evenings in Neukölln flats had them recall their adolescent years out of joint: of the hospital-white mail order catalog photoshoots, pro-ana veganism, the arrogant Tennessee sun, Führerprinzip under Bush 43, MySpace cybersex, late night drives in stolen cars, fathers and daughters mocking their mothers, the sapphic bumming of cigarettes, an the gnawing, heartbreaking sense of something being horribly wrong. They once referred to themself as once being a "zombie teenager." One of their English friends left them some Emil Cioran, which is squished between about nine other books on the one shelf meant for them on the wall opposite to the monitors - all arranged by the colours of their bindings, from black to white. Friends have remarked on their cleanliness being strange for an alt-pornographer. A part of them wonders if that proves they're insincere.
