Fashion Follows Flesh
The phenomenon of my noumenal skeleton brokenly reconstructed in this world, held together with blood and hair and dirty denim.
The caterpillar put off making its cocoon until the first snow.
Under “Experience” I wrote: I bring all my sins.
To turn away one lets in another.
The esthetics of complicity and the complicity of æsthetics—it’s a common mistake not to match the makeup to the cadaver.
Cocoons in the window: that one’s finished, but this one’s done. I put it in my pocket.
I have a history with myself. It’s one of disappointment and revenge. Still, I went to church. My old bully was there.
The bee was fooled by the scent of huckleberry soda in the hand of a person who’s never bitten a berry.
Thirty wolves killed two corgis in self defense.
When the zombies came, they had a dogged work ethic but no faith. They got bonuses. The living got PDPs.
The caterpillar made his cocoon out of his skin, not spun from his guts. It’s much admired, there’s none like it, but it still hasn’t opened.
— Mort Duffy
October 8th 2025
Halloween Day 8