NAUSEA AT TIFFANY’S IS THE CURE FOR THE GLAMOUR-HANGOVER


sartre probably just had the mean reds. after all the wildest night new york’s ever known. or perhaps engrave it in a nametag for a cat. like cataloguing every impression of emotion, like walking down the street & seeing pigeons & knowing they are ugly & feeling they are beautiful & being sick with all that is lovely.

a specific kind of glamour, really elegance, it has a flavor with many components which produce a feeling of pleasant fullness in the mouth

not unlike but entirely dissimilar to the feeling of fullness in the throat upon humming a heavily-salted melody, or the body’s reaction to a piece of partially digested flesh. airlily dense, carbonated purple swilled in a champagne glass. events spilled & retold because to adventure is to have craft, to be possessed by or of it.

very drunk on the moment indeed, & by each a little more removed. slips outside of itself to avoid sickness. the not-unpleasant sensation of constant awareness at the moment before the body gives, buckle knees & grab, wish for a clock, the form of a hand in the costume of a martryed beggar or a rock. in color, the shock is softer.

 

the devoted learner proceeds in the manner of a, then b… the burdened learned learns to live with it. there are cutouts in the backs of certain books which display nonessential information – that is to say, glamour; or, that which has been visibly digested. a watch forgets its nature & jams. the mute processess. the mute processes in a well-made black dress. her mouth is filled with refined. her mouth is filled with it she is mute. the blind processes. the blind processes behind design. there is an accessory which is a drape.

 

beribboned, the mouth opens; a paranthetical brow discloses. & the masque goes on & the talented process down the alleys in crepe dresses & the alleys are made of serifs & the night is made of gauze.

. . .

 

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