You live in the trash. Literally.
You are the same substance you use to pack, destroy, and create.
Who do you sleep with at night? What do you buy, what do you sell, what do you steal?
You confuse the warmth of skin with the cold of plastic, with the fragility of glass.
And if a rift of reality appeared in the plastic sky above your head, would you know when to look up?
Yorke wrote it in a rush, perhaps drunk, later finding many of the words he used amusing. However, after some time, the stress of recording and interpreting it was such that numerous times he burst into tears without knowing why.
As if some sort of subliminal message hit him straight in the brain without warning.
The power of music is also this. Even when it kicks you, you appreciate the spontaneity it has towards you.
With calm and suffering anticipation, the moment arrives when sweetly Fake Plastic Trees asks you for what you don't want to be asked for.
It's bitter, but you love it anyway. Just like you love those who harm you.
"Fake Plastic Trees, with its three sustained and crystalline organ chords, reminded her of her Christmas: melancholic, cold, decadent but not for that less happy, alive, lived."
"Today, a little over twenty years later, what remains is the melancholy linked to that period and the oppressive cold of that winter of 2004 that’s still in my bones and easily resurfaces every time I play this song."