Your cell phone, your wallet, your time, your ideas No barcode, no party, no id, no beers Your bankcard, your license, your thoughts, your fears No simcard, no disco, no photo, not here Your blood, your sweat, your passions, your regrets Your office, your time off, your fashions, your sex Your pills, your grass, your tits, your ass. Your laughs, your bones
We write it all
We want your soul
In the future, you won’t buy artists’ works; you’ll buy software that makes original pieces of “their” works, or that recreates their way of looking at things. Brian Eno, Wired 3.05, May 1995
