Honestly, I don’t know how to say this, as it is a delicate subject. But, I guess this is my coffee bar, OK, it’s not like a pay rent or anything like that, but I suppose I can say whatever I want without the lengthily-boring-self-explanation.
I don’t know what is worse when someone famous – oh no, they use the word celebrity nowadays – dies: to be bombarded by the media with the gruesome details of the circumstances, if the person died during the sleep, if she or he was either dressed, and in what color, or naked, on their backs, covered in vomit, drugged, over-dosed, things that people will never know about me or my cadaver
the books published two weeks after the death of the celebrity. The glorified gossip, the hecatombs of the celebrity world. All for the vain metal.
This fascination about the cadavers of the famous is really tiresome. But, it seems that people always want to know the true story about Amy Winehouse, Nicole Smith or Michael Jackson.
I think I need hallucinogenic eye-drops.
The world is becoming a real bore.