Look around you: we are. The first city purely dreamt into existence came out looking at the same time bombastic and austere, in marble buff-white as the teeth of Kristen Bell when she draws back her bloodless lips. Madeleine: “Those are Louboutins, you can see the red lining. Those are thousand-dollar shoes.” Bell plays a young and super-successful curator of the Guggenheim, the ostentatiously classical museum on New York’s regal Fifth Avenue. Uptight, she loosens, and when her four comic suitors come, near the climax, all to her door, one wonders…
I didn’t mean to say before that anyone fucked, sometimes or often, gains any special understanding or even pleasure from it, always or ever. I’m just saying, sometimes having a cock is like operating the robot arm from within the space shuttle’s hermetic pod. How much better to pop the airlock and let nothingness crumple you like a can.
What do you get for the girl who has everything? Honey, just get me those red-lined shoes. I’m giving away my beauty, sitting in the dark like this, gang-banged by gravity, laid waste by the barbarian afternoon. But at the same time I pull gravity apart, I leave it the slightest bit more slack. The barbarians ride home with the contagion of ruin inside them. The EXIT sign marks a door where the cold sneaks in. Our will to conquer leaks, by the same derelict portal, steadily out.
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