All the girls I know are dying of love and lack thereof or excess of, for lips that twitch at the end of a runway are the same lips that switch codes for the benefit of men, the kinds of which we’ve seen many times before but not this time: at the end of a runway, with all the spotlights shattering in unison. ‘Nothing prêt-à-porter about life at the office of hearts, dearie One,’ exclaimed La Diavola, her petticoat of simple flaming reds the butt of jokes around the cubicles of section 01. Wu-uuu-u. One thing, that I just can’t conceive, is how I just let you go on and on about 50 different permutations of happiness ever after; the world ipso facto, post-factum. Alea jacta est. When the frog kisses the prince, cherry-blossoms whither on stems as white as a peranakan girl’s buttocks. Not for nothing the Revlon red of your lips is now a washed-out pink on the rims of wine goblets. O, don’t you wish you had a river you could skate away on? I will draw bear footprints on its surface with my breath, the tip of my nose catching the cold reflection of my face. Always pressured to the ground, never from the same height. Always, already an all-night fair on the inside of your skull. Imagine that. Imagine all the people. Cotton candy in your hair. A button coming off the inside of your sleeves. A rush for the automatic vending machine dispensing emptiness into the sweaty hands of man-children. The worst sort there is. There’s one, hi-fiving dead air into submission on the other side of the street. An unwaxed surfboard in his left armpit. Imagine that. Imagine all the friction.