And we were popular for a little while. As muses. As specimens. As celluloid and dreams. Maybe Warhola saw a little of himself in us, with his dumb blonde twink toupe and his ancestors from one of the bad parts of Eastern Europe that no one wants to remember. The same forgotten language, по-нашому, in…
The morning after, life went on as normal, yet the air was polluted with apprehension and clouds made of tears choked our lungs like vines. My heart still beat to its little drum, but my mind exploded into chaotic noise instantly drowning out the steadiness and transforming into ear-splitting screeches: “What comes next?” “Will I…