Chic

This just bubbled up while my alarm was going off this morning. I have no idea what it may or may not become.

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The girl has no conception of money or time. She keeps a tattered, spoiled scepter woven into the frill of the headboard on her four poster bed, suspended above her as she sleeps, while princess dreams and multimillion dollar inclinations swirl, not unlike ideas, and seep into her brain, which operates purely on basal functions and a distorted perception of self. When she wakes and when she sleeps the girl dreams of American aristocracy and the floating heads and perfectly flawed pedomorphic faces and lifestyles of the gossip rags. New York. Los Angeles. Dream big, she thinks. Dream so fucking big that everyone will remember my name. I’ll run up enormous bills and cumbersome, unthinkable debts on the walks at Rodeo Drive. My marquee on Fifth Avenue. The Shubert on West 44th. Yeah. The girl dreams on and the girl dreams big. Bright pink sports cars and black SUVs. If you ask her, her favorite color is pink or black, chancing on when you ask. I love pink. Black is hot. And so on. The scepter is pink and her sheets are black.