Cinematic beacon on highway underpasses. New York smells like cold old garbage. That stink wriggles into the exposed arteries of the romantic street cutter. There’s no cover from wind and rain but a needle’s fill of junk. Headlights interrupt the night and she stands there indifferent to your “good intentions”. Proselytizing on love she throws it all away again. She lives aboard an ancient pizza box. Her kiss a breath of rot from a cracked casket. Her friends play French New Wave bikers for the camera. Sexy crust punk spangers. The ultimate freedom of addiction. The real walking dead. Hardstyle beatz & halfway houses.