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Had to share a little more of my things from the last event on Paris, anyway. Aren’t you guys curious about it, though? So, it was midnight, or maybe the end of the world, and the Eiffel Tower seems just like a giant needle piecing the dark together. I’m laying them out on the hotel bedspread—white linen that feels like a fresh bandage. The Chloé lace in the first shot doesn’t look like fabric anymore; it looks like frost creeping up my throat, or maybe a spiderweb that caught a girl instead of a fly. Just blissfully empty. Samniont’s Sungchan was there, too, all clean lines and that nylon sheen which smells like expensive industrialism and cold stone. Here’s the breakdown: the flash: he assisted on taking pictures of me, eyes two burnt-out stars and I did returned it by took some of him, and he’s just a sharp shoulder and a shadow, whatsoever. The feast: we had something off silver platters. They taste like we’ve been eating winter for dinner.. I think I swallowed a piece of the moon, and it’s glowing in my ribcage now? And the mingle: everyone is talking in italics, but we’re just whispering in lowercase! I touched a stranger’s silk sleeve and felt a spark of someone else’s dream hanging like chandelier. We’re happy. It’s that expensive, happiness where you know you’re going to wake up tomorrow with smeared eyeliner and a heart full of static. But, right now? Right now, we didn’t even bother to look at the exit signs.
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