-6. fashion week

if god could see inside the Balenci store...

~ PLEASE LISTEN TO THE AUDIO - ITS THE MOST IMPORTANT PART ~

 OVERWORLD 

Rob the Moncler Truck – 200 thousand in down jackets – suits of armor should be at the MET.

A feeling in my head up the back of my spine – the back of my head – a chill went up my spine.
This place makes you want nice things…

Undercover feds – an overly diverse group of people all chilling. Age, race, gender all mad different. Claimed my whole house in a fine art gallery truck – they mostly transport art but once a month the Feds rent a truck from them and put a whole crib in there.

I’m a fugitive from the law an outlaw on the lam and just a thief. 

Black car and alu-minium luggages.

My secret life in New York. 

“I’ll tell you later. I’ll tell you off air. I’ll tell you all about it.”

~

Its early in the morning and girls are already out wearing sunglasses and taking photos in front of the wall across the street. 

A war criminals’ apartment.
An autistic crypto millionaire blows out of proportion my offhanded comment about stealing cars... 
“Drive it like its stolen.”
He notices a scratch on the front bumper of his matte black range rover – he points it out to me. 
His eyes start welling up with tears. His French bulldog drools looking up at me. 
“My project car.” 
“The power of BMW.” The dog whispers.

Click.

(Quincy Jones, Just Once plays over the radio.)

I fall asleep at the wheel slamming into Fanelli café at 60mph – no seatbelt 
I fly
through the windshield and crumple over the bar and crease my ALYX Airforces 1’s. 
The music fades an the vehicle dies.

Hot older woman walks out of the historic building smelling strongly of eucalyptus wrapped up in a fur coat – probably koala…

She speaks.
(In reference to the weather) “Not too bad today.” 
“No, it’s nice and crisp.” I reply.
“Exactly. Not cold if one wear the right clothes.”

Low and relaxed. 
I’m Mr. Relaxed. 

Not wearing much underneath her coat so she’s cold – energized, from the cold front.

She’s an easy target to them – she takes the brunt of people’s anger.
Proud of herself but feels in the back of her head she might not deserve it. The status. A sinking thought in the back of her head that she’s beautiful and she’s got it easy and that’s all people can see. 
She cannot control it – her good looks. 
And maybe as you get closer to who she is on the inside you can see her true beauty. The things that God gave her to do battle with – not that thang her momma gave her. 
But for now, it is a shield and sword – the cause of much self-consciousness. 
All the windows around her.

“What’s your name again? Bob?” I say to her.

She grins.

“You look smart. So maybe you should keep your mouth shut.” She says back to me.

"I’m okay if there are some strings attached just as long as they’re low to the ground."

She grabs my hand and walks me through the opera house to a room that’s hers with open Juliette balcony windows, a kitchenette and bed. She tells me to wait for a while and go on Facebook or something – I tell her I don’t have one. Her face softens and she smiles. 
“It makes me seem older.” 
She looks up at me and smiles. 

Cherry on top.

The perfect weather. Standing at the edge of the sidewalk the cobblestones seem like waves around me. 
And standing on some old dock, I notice a feeling of history develop.
I feel all the time around getting thick like honey.
The historic landmark agitates my eyes. 
Agitating the chemical and casting a way out of me. 
I am a man possessed by a dream and I’m evening the odds. 
Dreamy forward and assertive. Intimidating and inviting, like I’m falling in love.
But really just present to our beauty and its floating aspect. 
My vision becomes a circle.

Look at it and describe it in your head – tell a story – and then… 
Just talk. 
The waves of grain – the blades of grass. 

Click.

Falling asleep smoking cigarettes – this guy on the bench calls the cops. He hands them a folded paper from inside his jacket pocket. This guy legit chills here all day starting at like 7:30am and looks at his phone smoking cigarettes till about 5 o’clock everyday then comes back at night to do the same shit. And it’s cold. 
The cops brush him off and leave. 

Then, 
two Dudes hella faded fall out of the Maserati after crashing into the stanchion.

“Oh damn – we can’t park here? We’ll be in and out to the Balenci store – 5, 10 minutes.”

“Balenciaaaaaga…” the other dude says retardedly.

“A quick stop into Balenciaga… what are you going in for? A job interview?”

Dude takes a giant whip it from a nitrous canister and his oversized gothic shades melt into his face. He stumbles across the cobbled street and just as they cross the unholy threshold the alarm of the champagne Maserati sedan blares loudly and regularly for the next 5, 10 minutes.

Fashion week.

Spending it as fast as you make it. Fuck it.

I’m flying through the hotel – the witches sabbath – I burn the paper. 
I just want to see if it works is what I tell myself... 

Could my curiosity forsake me? Or am the curiosity, not the lazy cat. 
Could I be forgiven for my righteousness?
If God could see inside the Balenci store…

I am a hell of mirrors.
I am a hall of mirrors.
I am the image director.
The changing faces – the history and the changing characters of the staff. 
A hotel that never ever closes.
There’s always someone here. There is always someone up in the old hotel. 

Mirror mirror on the wall.

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*║🌹thank u liza for the beauti voiceover🌹║*

*║🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹 🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹║*

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