teki latex:
catwalk wars
get on the front line
cold beauty
shallow mind
tragic violence
tabloid warfare
turn your dream into a nightmare
t-turn your dream into a nightmare
turn cape and heels
into cloak and dagger
turn youth into a timeless culture
innocence into a soulless vulture
vyle.:
i see you baby
downtown
in vienna yellow range
we still got dreams too
them ancestors still watching
new meaning for
you're now rocking with
grand high exhalted
and they need they lick back
for wall street soapbox at auction
desert railroad container home
that's mirror vaulted
why they gas you
to be ignited
you sound exhausted
she told me that you getting anfernee credits
a
little
penny
solvent
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88 Palace Mall, Lower Manhattan. Present-day.
A corridor of flickering fluorescence, the scent of oil-drenched dumplings and stale incense mingling in the air, storefronts with Chinese characters painted across the windows—spaces that serve a different clientele by day but, for tonight, belong to fashion's shifting underbelly.
A Film Sport show. Or Eckhaus Latta. Or Anna Bolina. Or one of those unnamed, ephemeral downtown brands known only by artists, models, and the scene's transient illuminati—brands that don't exist until they do, brands that disappear before they get commodified.
The runway is makeshift, carved from the architecture of necessity—a tight corridor, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, stores flanking either side like sentinels. The model moves through it, neither fast nor slow, neither present nor absent, existing only in the moment fashion demands of them.
At the end of the hallway, the buyers.
Some tourists in the trade, others calcified in their expertise, but one stands out.
A buyer who sees past the pageantry, past the performance, past the veneer.
They know the industry is built on the uninformed and the misinformed, on transplants who moved to the city for a narrative they'll recycle decades from now, their experiences curated for cocktail party conversations, their struggles performative, their discoveries repackaged nostalgia.
They see the young girls ushered into this world, plucked for their look, oblivious to the fact that the truly revered were never plucked at all—they were born into it, already threaded into the seams of power, gliding through the structure on an inheritance of connections.
But beyond that, beyond the flesh-and-blood cycle of consumption, the buyer sees a future taking shape—a future where the androidesque inherit the runway.
Not just mannequins, not just muses, but the wearers, the sellers, the spectacle itself.
A coup in slow motion, a silent shift of power between the ones who master manipulation and the ones who are perpetually born to be deceived.
The buyers watch. The models move. The cycle continues.
And somewhere in the distance, the mandibles of an unseen system keep grinding.