Front 242
This World Must Be Destroyed

Exuberance is Beauty.

An architecture of iron and concrete, a synthetic heartbeat that pulses like a countdown towards the inevitable.

This World Must Be Destroyed is not just a title, it's a manifesto.

It's the moment of the Gong, waiting for the final roar.

Memories and radiation.

There's a madness of writing that you have inside, a madness, furious but that's not why one is mad. On the contrary.

The West has always found itself imagining its death

It's the sound of civilization fading away under the weight of its own arrogance, an electroshock requiem for a world that has lost the sense of its existence.

The drum machine pulses with a pounding, military rhythm, armies of shadows advance relentlessly, at this moment the sound overwhelms and someone is writing for us.

Incomprehensible voices filtered through speakers, crumbling walls, coldness finally took shape after so many disguises. No explosion because the destruction has already happened inside us.

But there's also a dark sensuality in this music. It's the perverse charm of decadence, the desire to dance on the edge of the abyss, to lose oneself in the rhythm before everything vanishes. It's the sound of an underground club where bodies move like automatons, seeking a last moment of connection before the lights go out forever.

Dance Club at the corner, strobe lights blend with explosions, scents of one last damned dance.

The bass thumps like distant explosions, the lights illuminate for just a moment more, eyes searching for something—someone.

Loneliness that means death or books. But above all, it means alcohol. It's believed that when one thing ends, another immediately begins. No. Between the two, there is havoc.

He is a boy with a worn leather jacket, his gaze lost among the shadows. She has a black dress shining under flickering neon, the smile of someone who knows time is short. They meet without words, only the rhythm guides them. Hands brush, bodies draw close. There is no future, there is no past. Only the present, only the beat.

Outside, the world burns. Inside, they dance.

This World Must Be Destroyed.

Por Dios que Temazo.