#1960s.

Swingin' 60s: I'm not distracted at all ...

❝Don’t be frightened, Pêche.❞

Alphabetically, it’s the: deathversary, he whose name nor his accomplice’s may never enter the bloodstream of this memory with Hara in the low light silhouetting it. One tear for each cast member.

Twenty-five years to the day—another Mardi Gras. The fatter the Tuesday, the worse the hangover.

It’s, equally, knowing he deserved the gift. He doesn’t believe the three of them’d had a family portrait made once.

❝I have a condition.❞

"𝑴𝒚 𝒉𝒖𝒏𝒈𝒆𝒓’𝒔 𝒏𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝒔𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒔𝒇𝒊𝒆𝒅," 𝑳𝒆𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒕 𝒔𝒂𝒚𝒔. "𝑲𝒏𝒐𝒘𝒍𝒆𝒅𝒈𝒆 𝒊𝒔 𝒘𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒇𝒖𝒆𝒍𝒔 𝒎𝒆."

Romanticize everything to death and then romanticize that too.

Like when the world birthed blue, that is His eyes. And when she saw blue for the first time, it was deeper than marrow that was touched.

There's clamorous clinking crystal of Hollywood's finest luminaries, all collected under limelight royalty of The Ora family's roof. If she had known, she would have returned a day or two later. She'd prefer bedsheets and vinyl. She's settled poolside but there's still undesired noise.

❛ A symptom of knowing too much, I suppose. ❜

He's a blossom open of sapience — he's got more wisdom in a split-end than the company he keeps. A brother keeps one on the precipice of perfection in this way. Despite this slight,

Lestat is not noise. He is not undesired either.

“A very young Silver Miniature Poodle. Until the face and feet were trimmed it was impossible to tell this dog from a Black Poodle puppy.” This is the poodle. 1960.

Night view of Lower Manhattan’s Financial District skyscrapers and Brooklyn Bridge’s viaduct. View looking southwest from East River, late 1962.

Photo: Shostal, New York.