Frederic Madre

The psychiatrist is seated behind her desk. In front of her, a plate. She talks to the patient and points to the gelatinous ovine mass on the plate "this is your brain", she says calmy. She grabs a green bottle on her desk and pours the cheap red wine on the freshly butchered organ. The patient looks at his brain on the plate, raw, fragile and burned. "This is what alcohol does to your brain", the psychiatrist says.

m.s.t. is a constructed ruin.

He thinks "with you" and the rot sets in, small pieces of memory disappear, vast areas of souvenirs are rendered meaningless, the rest is detached and astray. Rust never sleeps. It feasts on the tears. To eat, to sleep. The sex, your shrine, burns. A blurred image of the sex, your shrine, burns. The joy of burning flesh, to eat, to sleep "sans toi" means without you.

m.s.t. is a happy piece. The joy of burning raw flesh. The destruction that love brings exists during the joyous idyll, it is love itself. The best part of breaking up is being yourself again. Without you, it's me. It's a kick. (Olga Shishko)