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Image 1 of 1
Image 1 of 1
Image 1 of 1
Subtlety is for people who sleep with their shoes on.
My handshake is firm because I was raised by autographs.
A private screening of my own aura starts playing from the projector on the ceiling.
It begins spitting out colors that smell like chocolate while teleporting candy to the guests.
The factory orchestra, hopeless romantics that they are, plays elevator music penned by a conspiracy theorist who once dated a metronome.
Cameras flash from the paparazzi loompahs, tiny and relentless, their polaroids will be souvenirs from the private tour.
Somewhere above, past the ceiling that fizzes like carbonated applause the great glass elevator awaits.
Subtlety is for people who sleep with their shoes on.
My handshake is firm because I was raised by autographs.
A private screening of my own aura starts playing from the projector on the ceiling.
It begins spitting out colors that smell like chocolate while teleporting candy to the guests.
The factory orchestra, hopeless romantics that they are, plays elevator music penned by a conspiracy theorist who once dated a metronome.
Cameras flash from the paparazzi loompahs, tiny and relentless, their polaroids will be souvenirs from the private tour.
Somewhere above, past the ceiling that fizzes like carbonated applause the great glass elevator awaits.