Just back. And already bored of these toughly provincial places where neighbourhood bingo remains the snobbest scene to show your new predictable haircut and if you're young and rude enough you go eat watermelon by the river. Finger food. Places between other same places where if a trend happens to come it's already dramatically too old to be adopted, so that people prefer to stay in their reassuring casual look in order to cover what happens to be just lazy sloppiness. Places where even hipsters wish not to be noticed. Too much.
Berlin instead really must be the Big Mother of all world styles at least, and now let me show you poor little things what I had the pleasure to meet during my solitary pilgrimage therein.

Fuck yes you can bet it was it. On my proper skin. In a narrow and dusty vintage shop. At a disdainfully ingenuously low price for the piece, that I still couldn't afford but that hurt much more than the thousands. So I had to hide in the not-so-fake industrial dressing room and take some pictures. Forgive the moronic gaze. It's my gaze for pure love.

Something to read in Berlin?

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