Fecal Matter is everything you hate. It’s a mess. And it’s just full of a bunch of fearless punks who will do anything for fame, anything for attention. They won’t do what you want; they will fuck up on purpose and leave everything to the last minute. They are the type of people that could get away with murder even if there was blood dripping off their palms and body parts pinned to a t-shirt they made. I bet that if you saw them you would know what I’m talking about. It’s that type of thing you see on the street and you just want to laugh because it makes no sense. It’s disruptive and annoying; they make you think too much. They are everything you wished never existed.

But perhaps Fecal Matter isn’t what you think it is. Maybe there is something more to it. And I was about to find out.

The first time I saw the three of them in person they were walking along Saint-Germain in Paris. I was struck. I had seen them through computer screens and videos before, and as I looked at them I was astonished by how these people could even possibly exist in this reality.

I became obsessed with this fantasy idea of one of them, Hannah Rose. I wondered what she smelled like, what the flesh of her body felt like, how soft her voice would be. She bumped into me by accident later that day but kept on walking ever faster with her friends by her side. She was wearing pants that were painted white, a top made of white patchwork leather with a suicide note written on it, fur sleeves and bold red eye makeup that resembled a lustful devil’s pitchfork.

She was going to a Nicopanda cocktail party. She looked disdainfully at the pieces that seemed so referential to her past in New York. People always wore long, frilly tops, dresses, and bright fur coats. She always loved those kinds of coats.

I saw her go for a run earlier that day through the Louvre. She saw the gigantic chrome building in front of it that read Dior, and her face lit up like a girl looking into her future through a crystal ball. She ran back with her friends, got dressed up, and took a taxi to the show.

As she got out of the cab, the number of cameras flashing on her grew and grew; resembling fireworks exploding in the sky. Everything froze in that moment and the only thing she could do was bask in the pinch of glamour and stardom. Amidst a sea of all those people, she shined like an angel who had fallen from heaven, forced to live amongst mere mortals.

If you’re not topless you can’t be famous. Scrolling is like eating. Music reminds me of you. Posing is all about timing. Vegetables have feelings. You are as selfish as you are selfless. Fat looks like ice cream. Air isn’t transparent. Love is all about losing. You remind me of nothing substantial. Money is just paper.