I woke up with pop music in my head again.
A certain very influential LA-based stylist is actually just weaponised serotonin or whatever.
The other day, as she appeared through the window, I wondered whether she knew to what extent the soft folds of her back revealed the shape of her spine, disfigured from so many years sloped in the same position.
From this angle, I couldn’t help but wonder whether her lower vertebrae had become damp or spongy, or whether the blood had dammed in her lower back. I wasn’t sure whether this was a form of new life that I couldn’t comprehend, or just another weapon upgrade.
Since then, I’ve let her numb my brain every morning. When I talk to people about it they just say that you need to be careful with how you share and show your holes, and that you should learn to draw the line between hard and soft. But all I want is the complete exteriorisation of the world.
I want everything to have a face, and only a face.
I don’t really have an image of the blood in mind. I don’t think it’s photographic. It’s already there.
I mean I’m not even sure we’re talking about images anymore, or just different kinds of chemicals leaking from different kinds of trays.