Fashion Dies in the Metaverse

Fashion I’m so sorry for your loss, you are at a great loss, you are soon to pass, to leave this world for the metaverse, hooked into cables and cords, turned in and out, left to a empty shell built into code by some cold hands at the rotten end of some big suit’s budget plan for the new world order. You’ll become a database of numbers and information, an algorithm that’s you, watered down, the lite version of your essence, a one dimensional surface for some fashion school idiots to ouu and ahh about in some bleak classroom. Face it, you’re not what you used to be, fashion, my love you’re dying, choked out, succumbing to the fashion to you your own existence. I’m sorry you’ll live for eternity on a computer hard drive wired in cyberspace jerked around through some goggles in some jerkoffs highrise where he manipulates some digital limbs with some digital fabric all because its “easy”. You fashion are now a machine and I hate you. I pity you as a craft. You belong to children who know more about a like count than a thread count. No one cares about the bias anymore. You’re a wet rag in some bloggers shithole studio used to clean some freshly dyed Nikes, the filth. You’re the back end of the the lining of some pants ruined by cheap dollar store paint and some idiots drive to make a buck, fifty. You’re not gathered anymore or pleated, your printed and fucked by all the kids. You died with instagram and the “anyone can do it” and “support my small — -” fuck you cunt. I’m not going to support shit but this funeral. Take four years to master a program only to lay in the doldrums of your own meaninglessness because a designer is a designer and a creative is a designer and if you tell yourself — manifest manifest- boppaty boopi you aRe A cReAtIvE too. Fucking stench. Fashion dies in the metaverse. Where you design with your crack eyes and blue light and you cant tell a synthetic from the real thing because you child are the fine line of matter and substance and it doesn't even matter anymore if you make a buck. Fashion dies in cyberspace where you tech junkies turn silk into a jpg.. sylk.jpg.// and silk isn't even worm shit anymore its just a number in the invisible world and those goggles are going to make your head explode one day and that silk you never bought will never wick enough moisture to clean the damn mess, fool. I loved you fashion, but I hate every who loves you too, so maybe its best if you die in cyberspace, because everyone’s going to die there too. I loved a version of you I think no one but myself knows, with flesh drying in the winter after a fresh kill, bones shaves to a cage to capture your waistline and trap you in a web of fluidity, the shell of a beast carved to cage fired sand and your eyes have a one of a kind, king, your are animal in animal in animal. Fashion I think I loved you when you were alive and natural, in my dreams I wore you when I needed you.

You get me though, right? I think we have about fifteen past an hour left together because I wont have much time for you you'll be busy with them next year, in the metaverse. I know I’m right — wait what?

sorry I lost track of myself and time, cyberspace has so many windows but not to tell me how long I’ve been glued to this robot — right, fashion, they died in the metaverse, right. I was thinking about pelerine and porcelain creatures in the 1800s and the contour of the white body through the gaze of fashion to embody some nomadic tribal people from southeast Africa. Wow, fashion- at least when you were stealing you were still human. You’ve been copy and pasted so many times that everything is fashion and there’s a million you and a million them and everything is a different version of everything.

DERIVATIVES

I believe the biggest problem in today’s fashion is the derivative mind, the facefucked persona non grata, the love for the idea, the idea you fell in love with (V), the idea that there's some many ideas that ideas are just ideas and they stay ideas and they’re so much better on a computer than they’ll ever be in real life because we are becoming less and less and the meta is becoming everything we lack and fail to be. Lets face it, you couldn’t gather that skirt if your life fucking depended on it, love, but if you use half that trashcan of a brain of yours I'm sure you can get it done on clo, yeah, I know, you cant draw either, sure, there’s an app for that too. Your body barely works, what little of it isn't plastic as it is — and that's that for that, not that that matters or that you’re aware enough to think about it enough to want to be anything more than a robot, because then you’d have to feel and then you’d have a bug in your system, and the meta will spit you up and you’ll have to deal with outside again and touching things that don't have an electro magnetized pulse and a <brain> will singe your circuits and you too will again die in the metaverse metropolis with your digital suits and ties and bustier daydreams while the worlds on fire. “god save us all”, I know my dear old angel, with what intervention we need to find light in the darkness of code and negative space and the offwhite off balance of our off-center world dangling at the cusp of an imperfect axis.

IOU

I suppose I own you some more substance with that pisspot of conscious stew. Its a burden to tell you it how it is really without getting flagged by the CIA or some other agency looking to nullify the power I have to lag you out. So I’ll spence the next 45 avoiding hippies trying to kill me and make room for more code for you all to melt to. I think I’ve covered enough and laid a strong infrastructure for what will come in two thousand twenty two. A lot of words about a lot of things.

Thanks

Sincerely thank you for making it this far, but as I must, a disclosure from the writer. If you thought for one second that this space is for anything but my own pleasure or hilarity, let me stop you there. This is an educational service by myself to myself and what therapy it does to me to get this out may not affect you the same, so before you snarl at me with any remarks or opinions or blasé blasé, let me again stop you, this is for me, not for you.