Indochine
black ouverture
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Our masters are dead, and we are alone.
Our generation is no longer a generation, but what remains, the refuse and the coupon of a generation ration which promised, alas, more than any other.
Everything in the world is unhinged, everything.
And we, spoiled children born for evening pleasure , the softness of the lamps, the twilight that melts the contours, here we are in the middle of the apocalypse.
We love everything that ends and everything that dies.
That is why, without doubt, all our friends are dead.
Our fault is to survive it.