Glamorama
Having no idea where my keys are I rush up to Chloe's realizing we're running late (also thinking, That's cool) and Lauren Hynde opens the door and we stare at each other blankly until I say "You look... wonderful tonight" and she suddenly looks like she's shot through with something like pain or maybe something else like maybe something by Versace and she opens the door wider so I can enter Chloe's apartment where grunged-out Baxter Priestly's sitting on the island in the kitchen with Oakley eyewear and he's rolling a joint laced with Xanax and the Sci-Fi Channel is on in the background with the sound turned down and swanky dreampop coming from two ten-thousand-dollar speakers plays over it and Chloe's standing next to Baxter eating a peppermint in the Todd Oldham dress and listening to Baxter say things like "I saw a bum with really great abs today" and thirteen bottles of mineral water are in various stages of emptiness on a marble countertop next to faxes sent that say I KNOW WHO YOU ARE AND I KNOW WHAT YOU'RE DOING and the dozen French white tulips that I supposedly sent Chloe are in a giant crystal vase that someone named Susan Sontag gave her.
When Jamie glances over at me it's with a look that reminds me: You. Are. Alone.
This is all uttered so matter-of-factly, delivered so deadpan, that its existence opens a door and if you looked through that door you would see me moving above a winter road then descending rapidly and no one's there to catch me and I'm hitting pavement. What this implies simply is that truth equals chaos and that this is a regression.
She leans into me, lowering her voice, almost as if she's afraid someone is listening, and I'm thinking, She's just a shell, and something huge and shapeless is flying over us in the darkness, hanging above the courtyard, and a voice says, You all are.
When Jamie glances over at me it's with a look that reminds me: You. Are. Alone.
This is all uttered so matter-of-factly, delivered so deadpan, that its existence opens a door and if you looked through that door you would see me moving above a winter road then descending rapidly and no one's there to catch me and I'm hitting pavement. What this implies simply is that truth equals chaos and that this is a regression.
She leans into me, lowering her voice, almost as if she's afraid someone is listening, and I'm thinking, She's just a shell, and something huge and shapeless is flying over us in the darkness, hanging above the courtyard, and a voice says, You all are.