FULL-GLASS

If it weren't for the big-world back-idiocy of Life imitating the camera; when even noir-clichés are something other than real romance. The actresses chew gum and gumdrops at will, run around with their smartphones during breaks in filming, and when they get close to the camera, they don't look like their former, more vigorous selves. And they have invited the same pathetic, grotesque embryos a dozen times to their respective tabloid shows, just to make the already fast-moving time pass a little more quickly.

The media in question are going mad with this kind of thing, when the ratings are at Himalayan heights, while none of the presenters are direct enough or service-minded enough to contribute to the great central whole with a poem or prose.

While they are constantly kissing four-legged pets in the curious crosshairs of cameras, when has it ever been said once: I would try to make friends with the simple, ordinary people! The radio shows are perhaps even worse: chirpy buffoons laughing into the crackling jaws of microphones, while one or two chirping kittens have to be heard, although in fact the whole rabble-rousing performance is heaven and earth.

Now everyone thinks of indirect means, like most shrewd salesmen, to sell out their private lives, and when one or other magazine, TV channel or camera shows up at the knocking gates of luxury homes with a honeyed, fake-master speech, they will be required to keep themselves up until they deliberately discredit themselves - only the draught and always the forced images of others, even false consciousness, can travel.