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The screen lies. Let it lie. Lie back. Don’t fight the image. Blur it. Obscure it. Smash it, tape it back together, and shoot through the cracks.
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Clarity is a narc. The Streets are Noizey, Shadoh, and Granular; Phuriously Phlitting Phantoms in a Phucked up Werld. Sure, you might need to cut a deal now and then, eh? Save your skin? Right. Just watch your back.
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Nobody sane calls it “content” unless they’re selling something. Metrics are for perverts and confidence “artists”.
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Film school? Sure. Or not. Whatever. A diploma does not a genius make, nor nary a braggart of the alternative path be. Either way get used to being told to go fuck yourself; that is, unless you are an established insider, obscenely wealthy, or devilishly symmetric, in which case everything is said behind your back anyway, and chances are you’ve already sold your soul to Satan.
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Control the means of production. Control the means of distribution. Then realize you cannot and burn it all down.
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Fuck it. Flood the feed. Scrape it, trace it, phreak it, redistribute. Then completely forget about it, go outside, and get laid.
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Don’t ask. Don’t pitch. Don’t wait.
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The truth is overrated.
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Post nothing, leak everything.
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Memory is faulty.
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Budgets are blood curses, spend them like hush money.
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Always leave the mic on.
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Light spills. Let it.
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Say too much with too little.
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Feedback is holy. Let it loop.
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Pretend you are famous. Not that you are entitled, just that everyone is out to get you.
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Frame the moment before the moment.
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Every frame is a false memory.
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Forget themes. Plant rumors.
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Nobody is watching. Might as well confess.
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If this shit is printed, burn it, then type it up again by memory.
M.D.P. (Millions of Dead Pixels)
A manifesto for filmmakers, artists, and anyone making things in a fucked up world. Clarity is a narc.