“something I saw in an old issue of Artforum”

Draped over that glamorous old Victorian fainting couch where some Parisian call-girl was murdered, the sofa itself looked like her rotting, carved corpse with all its bleeding wounds implemented into the purple satin and its own possessed, cadaverous pose; I dream myself the dandy as well as the prostitute, listlessly pondering pearls and velour before I, too, am mercilessly cut-up and displayed as another rotting, carved corpse on top of that glamorous old Victorian fainting couch, and so the cycle continues anew as once more the aging satin tastes the santa sangre of a fresh victim.