Honesty. A quirk in the system, a glitch that needs to be quickly covered before it gets noticed by its surroundings. Honesty is scary and most of the times is inoculated with depraved fearmongering; the honest then turns into a pre-fabricated lunatic, joining a battalion of ostracized men, a phantom jungle hastily dismissed by those whose torches burn dissimulation.
Kowloon Walled City cannot lie, nor they want to. If they tried to, you would hear it. You can actually listen to every single pinch, every tiny gasp, the guitar humming its tune of distortion, the bass employing all its terminal nerves in a display of low-end gravity. This is honesty, uncovered, unprotected, flaws brought to light, getting caught every single time if they unperceptively flinch a bit. This is the honesty of rock, of noise rock, of prodigious sound engineering, and damn you if you don’t appreciate this sense of self-respect, of frankness, in a commonplace world where you have to fake joy and gratitude. Be thankful for those who do not deceive you, be fucking thankful for Kowloon Walled City.