The girl reading this is California cool, with a strawberry blonde voice, that emerges just slightly bored from a long lean body, a finely boned neck, a tight mouth. John Lennon’s death begins not only a book but a mood: a being-in-a-fucked-world mood, a being-towards-the-next-cigarette mood, the mood of a population without prozac, without zoloft, without effexor. The girl is depressed, California is depressed, America is depressed.
The girl dresses in used clothes and old heels and wears fake fur to a funeral. Yellow. This is because her boyfriend went to Twenty Nine Palms, registered as Oscar Wilde and shot himself. His name was Michael.
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