The sharp knife of perfection

Machines judge. They don’t love. They are a computer coded with millions of perfection standars that a human heart couldn’t meet. So machines live by constant dysphoria , cynicism, misogyny and the perfect dream. Of the perfect creation that will redeem them . A fiery model that exhilarates them – most of all because they’re plastic mannequin looking. She would be so sure of herself because her lips are worth the kiss prince gave to Snow White , her hair is chinese silk, her posture is graceful and her caracter resembles a french femme fatale. Does love exist? Or people have just turned their hearts to a closed off criterion that won’t ever understand and will never ever make room for a human mistake – or clumsiness. In that case, maybe love can be found inside the people that have suffered  the most, the road of the Plague doesn’t ever lead to the conclusion of criticism.  Love – alike the people who lived suffering, knows to embrace human darkness and fear.  There could be more love to be found inside the heart of an invisible girl than the model that lived the life of a queen surrounded by servants falling on her feet.