how to grieve in pastel
our future was held hostage so we made out own swimming through the recycled filth of modernity we stitched together fragments and fragrances of beautiful things where context was destroyed we created our own, passing our creations along with stories of love and triumph, defeat and decay, but always looking pretty while doing it aesthetics born out of the feeling of comforting someone while you both know that neither of you have the answers, that it will only get worse aesthetics born out of a language with no grammar, one whose screams are unrecognizable even to itself aesthetics born out of a love for the majesty of ghosts and what they held dear aesthetics aborted we called it art, they called it imitation they called it degeneracy, we called it love if the goal of fashion is to die and be reborn, than let us be the necromancers of futurity, carving crevices in our shared private hell and painting its ruins with the beautiful blood of corpses i just wish i was who ...