Man, woolen pullover from the 1970s, face full of sweat. Woman, clothes?, face full of? (pain? pretended lust? a mixture of both?). In a bed? Or only a disposable-macrame put on a filthy floor, in a backyard-garbage-industry-“house”? Looks like the perfect love scene in your half-closed mind, doesn’t it?
Don’t judge me for funny movies “directed” in my name, displayed every late night on German television and around the globus. Judge me for the smile I conjure on my wife’s face every night in our 500-Euro-bed – by giving her the clothes her exclusive body screams for. Judge me for the smile I conjure on my daughter’s face every night in our 1-million-house – by giving her the barbie-dolls with the perfect bodies, flattered by a touch of nothing.