Ça mène à rien

It's a remarkable night: lipstick on a glass, Mercedes engines whispering along the embankment, and all around, people with a ‘everything is beautiful, even if it's useless’ attitude. Here, romance is measured in brands and steps on the catwalk, and regret sounds in a repeating refrain - it seems to have worked out, but there is no point. It is amusing to observe how careful theatricality coexists with weary recognition - as if someone had rehearsed the performance for a long time, but in the end shrugged and left.

The rhythm is seasoned with Hennessy, cigarette sparks and cold-blooded irony: desires louder than words, and bodies that speak more honestly than promises. This is not a gloomy confession, but a diary entry after a stormy night - a little cynical, a little warm, with the feeling that you can run further while the engine is still warm.