Some say it all began during a four day erotic extravaganza at the french riviera while others claim it was the result of some fandango rebels being completely incommunicado after a road-house gig during ramadan. But the general public opinion states that it's origins actually remount to a fancy extramarital relationship between a radical group called radioactive flamingo and illegal fully-fashioned flamenco dresses gone incognito.
Probably. Why not bounce around, Rrose Sélavy?
The truth - if any - is that freima has always been and forever will, like an ignition switch inside each one of you, moving you furthur like the yet to be time-warp bubbles, with no apparent raison d'étre except pure exhilaration or real-time fiasco.
Whatever the cause and consequence, it is out there - in there - a rampant impulse joyfully striving to be shared by all future rebels engaged in multiple action, a collective evolutionary felatio that promises the beginning of the world.
Where it's leading is not the question but where we're leading it: freima is the ready-to-wear everyday fetish for the rave generation dada, the extraterrestrial fragrance on which the innocent and the immoral can draw their reckless plans of action.
The freimen are the incorruptible sons of freima, ethereal ramblers, impassioned reactors, ruthless evangelists who sold their ephemeral egos to the almighty insomnious force, eyewitnesses of rhythm, echoes of a restless engine: anyone is fit to be a freiman and yet there are few. Living in and through them, freima will go on, just like breathing, eating or fucking will go on.
They can stop the party, but they can’t stop the freima.