magically reveling in fashion as the end of the nihilism continuum, the end of the feminism debate.  a place where we are sexless starved and ahistorical, selfish, clothed.  a place like the church in the rue due faubough, where prada spring 08 might be seen like an apparition of flowers, and this beautiful electronica, programmed by whom, out of what darkness.
another day wading through los angeles smog, and through the words of blanchot, and some constitutional law.
trying to resign with humility from the mess i created, the letters of anguish, and the mockery of showing up for another dose of hatred.   and what to wear for the hatred.
i usually wear as much as possible.
layers, thickness.
i even want to hide my withering frame.
i don't want people to know how much my weight fluctuates with the anxiety i feel.
i balance it out with so many layers, i try to look as obese as possible, or as clothed.

i missed the prada today.
realized the marc jacobs foolishness of 2007 had seeped into my head.  all those chunky glasses and the librarian look.

worried this may turn into prada fan site.
soundtrack is everything.
even ogling prada phone.
worried.
pointlessly as i loved the russian gucci golden girl on her dolce and gabbana gold phone.
in her brown suit.
i'm a sucker like that.
lucky me to work in BH jan-october 2007. gah!