All your idols, burning out or fading away. Maybe when
you least expect it. Maybe spaced out in a random pattern that makes your hair
stand on end. Maybe, if you’re lucky, the corpse will stay warm til you finish
the record. It is only a matter of time.
But what an afterparty that will be. The lascivious
little hieroglyphic man chats up the guy who died by the needle before. The
choirgirl bangs away at the keys. Glimmer Twins and the old Walrus survey the
buffet and turn their noses up. The guy in the sharkskin suit sips a cocktail and
tells the buff ravenhair a story about his yacht. Two queens and a drum machine
turn an arched eyebrow at the whole spectacle. The orange crewcut diva shares
snark with them. The rebel with ambition refuses to stop dancing.
Look around and nobody looks familiar. It’s not the same.
Everybody’s way too young to idolize. But what they left behind remains and
endures. Listen to it all again and feel what you felt the first time.
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