There's a certain decadent charm to his compositions, early modernist with a mystical flair—and you can almost hear theosophical whispers beneath the piano lines. It's all very esoteric, very inward. His harmonic language, especially in the piano works, is lush, bordering on indulgent. I appreciate
It's the inevitable rot. No criteria, no standards. Just volume. Noise. Consensus as credibility. Warhol was the harbinger of that collapse. He opened the door and let the unwashed masses flood into the gallery like tourists in a Brioni outlet. Turned the gallery into a showroom. Turned meaning
Mylène thinks filing cabinet is sad again. She knelt before it—La Perla slip, barefoot—and pressed her ear to the lower drawer. “It’s sobbing,” she said. “Quietly.” I told her it was settling. . . . She started humming again. That atonal lullaby from Westchester she insists is Romanian.
1 00:02:14,000 --> 00:02:17,000 Séraphine: Colby, can you explain what makes you say that? 2 00:02:17,000 --> 00:02:22,000 Colby: Evvv-ry time I put in a bagel... 3 00:02:22,000 --> 00:02:28,
The Peel Session version (11/05/1980) is definitive. Compared to the studio cut, it feels more alive. There’s a moment. A crack in Gogan’s voice, barely there. So raw it borders on erotic. A vulnerability that only happens once, before the unraveling in Verona, before Gogan and
If it drips on marble, it’s been used correctly. A Persian rug might be tolerable — if it’s antique, handwoven, from Isfahan or Qom. The kind you step over, never on. But even that? It absorbs everything: Scotch, sweat, semen, the iron bite of something dying. The fibers remember.
4:26 p.m. The mime. The girl. The performance. I remember every second of it. Not because it was beautiful. Because it was a grotesque. He was dressed entirely in white—painted face, gloves, beret—the whole Chaplin-esque fantasy. She looked like she worked in fashion, maybe Calvin Klein,
I ask: 1. What time are we meeting? 2. Did you book the penthouse at The Carlyle? 3. Is the Russian still coming? . . Three simple fucking questions. . . I number the questions. I space the lines. I isolate the variables so even a moderately intelligent goldfish could process it. . . They answer:
It’s brash. It’s glamorous. It’s cocaine in sonic form—throbbing synths, manic energy, a sneer disguised as a chorus. It's not just a song—it’s a runway strut through apocalypse, wearing sequined arrogance and Revlon regret. Think neon sweat. Think mirrored trays. Think Duran
Department of Transportation New York City Dear [REDACTED], I am writing as a concerned resident and property owner in Manhattan who values the delicate balance of urban elegance and civic responsibility. Unfortunately, recent developments—specifically the unchecked proliferation of bicycle lanes and the accompanying swarm of amateur cyclists—have deeply
I’m walking back from a facial at Clinique La Prairie, just off Park, dressed impeccably—Zegna, suede Tod’s, skin dewy like an oil painting. A cyclist blows through a red light. Not a yellow—a red. The kind of red that’s practically begging for a tragedy.
That sounds... inefficient. Cloistering oneself in a closet like some kind of paranoid rodent, powdering your nose in the dark? Pathetic. If you're going to engage in anything illicit—drug use, infidelity, or something more elaborate—you don't do it hiding in a closet. You take