She is the perfect portrait for an archetypal fairy tale “The thousand and one nights”. Forged out of iron, steel and gold, powered by high vanity cars and the morals of the millions — dry flooded with Dollars, Euros and Bitcoins — and all the other representations of capital – it summons its visitors to participate in an ecstatic vaudeville.
If there is a place where money is really plastic, this is it. Here everything glows, especially the glitter. And even the night, unsustainably bright, grows devastatingly without ever stopping. Always inspiring you, like a serpent does to a bird, enchanting you till the next crash at the stock market.
Their mirrored glass skyscrapers are the perfect metaphor for those “laws” that prescribe as canonical the permanent growth of human economics. As if we were always bound to burst, victims of an unpostponable explosion of surpluses, serenely looking at the sustainable skyline, quietly and unashamedly smiling.
The city lives drunk as in a make-believe prohibition law, raging vertically supporting each tower that sprouts from the ground like cement mushrooms, some more poisonous than others, others endlessly sweet, all galloping from land to desert, all exchanging sand for concrete, like someone who sells dreams made of fresh water.
Genetically preordained, it will die out cyclically with the same certainty with which sand crystallizes into rock roses; and the same odorless, colorless beauty that decorates the facades of public buildings.
She does not host it, she is It. The Permanent Universal Exposition. An has been to be. A pious actress, a cartoonish diva all at once old and young from Hollywood and Bollywood. Seamlessly Bergman, utterly Lund. Where you’ll always find Rick, but never Bogart.
