Vérité
I’m not easily ruffled. But this was Vérité. I watched Jean-Claude's soul physically leave his body before he composed himself and slithered toward our table, smiling. You could feel the molecular rejection.
Maurice
A woman outside Zabar’s. Sobbing. Cheap shoes, knockoff trench. Mascara bleeding like a hostage. Maurice was returning from Dean & DeLuca with my order—black figs, Sicilian anchovies, duck confit—and he stopped. Took a moment. Removed a linen handkerchief from his jacket pocket. Monogrammed. Oxblood thread. M.J.
DECEMBER 20, XXXX
Goldblum, especially in the '80s, had that rare quality: he made awkwardness erotic. The silences. The nervous hands. The slight stammer. It’s not insecurity—it’s depth. A man who’s been thinking too long, feeling too much, and wandered onto a film set with perfect lighting. He’
S1E08 – Arbitrage
1 00:00:00,000 --> 00:00:03,500 Séraphine: You brought the mirror? 2 00:00:03,600 --> 00:00:05,400 Cassian: It insisted. 3 00:00:06,000 --> 00:00:07,800 [Pause] 4 00:00:08,000 --> 00:
Nouveau
No. New money is just the symptom. The real disease? Aspiration without calibration.
Warhol
It's the inevitable rot. No criteria, no standards. Just volume. Noise. Consensus as credibility. Warhol was the harbinger of that collapse. He opened the door and let the unwashed masses flood into the gallery like tourists in a Brioni outlet. Turned the gallery into a showroom. Turned meaning
Lullaby
Mylène thinks filing cabinet is sad again. She knelt before it—La Perla slip, barefoot—and pressed her ear to the lower drawer. “It’s sobbing,” she said. “Quietly.”
S1E01 – Colby Crisis
1 00:02:14,000 --> 00:02:17,000 Séraphine: Colby, can you explain what makes you say that? 2 00:02:17,000 --> 00:02:22,000 Colby: Evvv-ry time I put in a bagel... 3 00:02:22,000 --> 00:02:28,
Tiramisu
The Peel Session version (11/05/1980) is definitive. Compared to the studio cut, it feels more alive. There’s a moment. A crack in Gogan’s voice, barely there. So raw it borders on erotic. A vulnerability that only happens once, before the unraveling in Verona, before Gogan and
Marble
If it drips on marble, it’s been used correctly. A Persian rug might be tolerable — if it’s antique, handwoven, from Isfahan or Qom. The kind you step over, never on. But even that? It absorbs everything: Scotch, sweat, semen, the iron bite of something dying. The fibers remember.
OCTOBER 12, XXXX
4:26 p.m. The mime. The girl. The performance. I remember every second of it. Not because it was beautiful. Because it was a grotesque. He was dressed entirely in white—painted face, gloves, beret—the whole Chaplin-esque fantasy. She looked like she worked in fashion, maybe Calvin Klein,
Questions
I ask: 1. What time are we meeting? 2. Did you book the penthouse at The Carlyle? 3. Is the Russian still coming? . . Three simple fucking questions. . . I number the questions. I space the lines. I isolate the variables so even a moderately intelligent goldfish could process it. . . They answer: