SUPERKET

The place looks wrong: a boxy architectural tragedy, cinderblock painted in some shade of resignation. Maybe beige. Maybe taupe. If I had to name it? Child Support Almond. Or maybe Rent-Controlled Cream. No—Plebeige.

re: Delete

From: Griffin V. To: [REDACTED] Date: Tuesday, April XX, XXXX at 9:42:32 AM Dinner Friday with [REDACTED]. Single question? – G From: [REDACTED] To: Griffin V. Date: Tuesday, April XX, XXXX at 10:01:47 AM

Vérité

I’m not easily ruffled. But this was Vérité. I watched Jean-Claude's soul physically leave his body before he composed himself and slithered toward our table, smiling. You could feel the molecular rejection.

Maurice

A woman outside Zabar’s. Sobbing. Cheap shoes, knockoff trench. Mascara bleeding like a hostage. Maurice was returning from Dean & DeLuca with my order—black figs, Sicilian anchovies, duck confit—and he stopped. Took a moment. Removed a linen handkerchief from his jacket pocket. Monogrammed. Oxblood thread. M.J.

DECEMBER 20, XXXX

Goldblum, especially in the '80s, had that rare quality: he made awkwardness erotic. The silences. The nervous hands. The slight stammer. It’s not insecurity—it’s depth. A man who’s been thinking too long, feeling too much, and wandered onto a film set with perfect lighting. He’

S1E08 – Arbitrage

1 00:00:00,000 --> 00:00:03,500 Séraphine: You brought the mirror? 2 00:00:03,600 --> 00:00:05,400 Cassian: It insisted. 3 00:00:06,000 --> 00:00:07,800 [Pause] 4 00:00:08,000 --> 00:

Nouveau

No. New money is just the symptom. The real disease? Aspiration without calibration.

Warhol

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

Lullaby

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.”

S1E01 – Colby Crisis

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,

Tiramisu

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

Marble

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.

OCTOBER 12, XXXX

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,

Questions

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:

Catwalk

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

re: Cyclist Infrastructure

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

Ravioli

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.

Hotels

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

MARCH XX, XXXX

22:32 Halfway through the meal, a man at the next table—a hedge fund manager with cheek implants and a dermal filler addiction—collapsed face-first into his agnolotti del plin. People clapped. They thought it was performance art.

Choker

The moment you see a choker, say, a mid-tier cocktail bar in SoHo or on a girl ordering a cucumber martini at Embargo... you know. Something’s off. It’s never just an accessory. It’s a warning sign. Like an Hermes tie on a man who still uses a

re: Acoustic Integrity

Subject: re: Acoustic Integrity Standards From: [REDACTED] To: [REDACTED] Date: Tuesday, April X, XXXX at 9:42:32 AM Harlan— We’ve reached the point of no return. I’m no longer willing to debate with men in tool belts about whether a bathroom should be soundproofed to suppress a

Gstaad

Christie’s, Modern Art Auction. Not because I need another Warhol; I hate Warhol—but because absence would be suspicious. Mylène’s beside me in a Ralph Rucci silk double-faced crepe gown from 2011, whispering commentary that sounds like desire but is appraisal.

Tipping

It’s performative generosity—a hollow gesture meant to signal empathy, but really it’s just another way for nouveau to feel morally superior while they nibble on uni toast and sip Sancerre. The very concept of tipping is beneath anyone who owns cufflinks from Charvet or knows the difference

NOVEMBER XX, XXXX

Store wasn’t crowded—just a handful of students pretending to browse Coltrane while hoping to be noticed, and a clerk with the posture of someone who knows his job is almost obsolete. I went straight to Jazz/Soul, third row from the front, left side—because I already knew