Here, you, stop it up for to recognize the depth of dank cave that is lightless fulfillment, how incendiary. Match burnt in wet hideaway, bats or mice crawling, bleak monument catacomb to our old pleasures. Revived for an eight-hour period as a rung phone gives way to dialtone, doesn’t it feel good not to be anyone there?
The resort collections are ever more wearable, the public can afford to stand them. Us in our wrinkly shows of grumpy hunger, did you want that orange? No. I don’t like doing this cold, let’s get you gone. It’s only because of everybody.