Pedro Costa, projections et discussions, à Bruxelles, ce week-end.

Choose Life. Choose a job. Choose a career. Choose a family. Choose a fucking big television, choose washing machines, cars, compact disc players and electrical tin openers. Choose good health, low cholesterol, and dental insurance. Choose fixed interest mortgage repayments. Choose a starter home. Choose your friends. Choose leisurewear and matching luggage. Choose a three-piece suit on hire purchase in a range of fucking fabrics. Choose DIY and wondering who the fuck you are on Sunday morning. Choose sitting on that couch watching mind-numbing, spirit-crushing game shows, stuffing fucking junk food into your mouth. Choose rotting away at the end of it all, pissing your last in a miserable home, nothing more than an embarrassment to the selfish, fucked up brats you spawned to replace yourselves. Choose your future. Choose life… But why would I want to do a thing like that? I chose not to choose life. I chose somethin’ else. And the reasons? There are no reasons. Who needs reasons when you’ve got heroin?

Irvine Welsh, Trainspotting, 1993.

Mia: Is that a fact?
Vincent: No, it’s not. It’s just what I heard.
Mia: Who told you this?
Vincent: They.
Mia: They talk a lot, don’t they?
Vincent: They certainly do.
Mia: Well, don’t be shy, Vincent… what did they say?
– Pulp fiction (1994)

OXS, Rubber Soul, Milano, 2014

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