The secret rage of the handsome drifter and all the damaged men aimless on the Earth. His filthy but whole slacks, his skinny ankles. His cheap games. He lives in your capacity to be ripped off.

In his past, days spent in the company of a naked woman. Days spent submitting to her sex. Slimy textures and aromas of fermentation. He remembers these days with casual ease to you, but truth be told he wakes up every filthy morning longing for the cheap love of a whore.