SUPERSCAR

Everything glows with neon and smells of expensive sweat. Glossy confidence wrapped around the wrist plays truth or dare with its own fears. Every glance is like a deal, every smile a contract on new terms for the body. Dance becomes currency, and the spark between fingers a tax on pleasure. The stage trembles like a string under the puppeteer's fingers, but who is who is an open question. In glitter and synthetics, you can hear your heart beating its rhythm, demanding recognition, even if the price is a star-shaped bruise. Beauty is turning into a business, passion into strategy, but there's still a strange honesty in this madness. It's as if true freedom is hidden in the glamor and dirt, a scream under the mask of SUPERSCAR.