Niko + Changchang

Sometimes, during our summer in Prague, I withheld information from you just so I felt in control (like Nutella's death or the synth-shrimp pesto pizza for Lisa Lin).  Now, that neither of us control our destiny with Bad Boy-The-Wrecking-Ball and we’re stuck in this broken-down pseudo-Paris of South America (which is totally bullshit self-branding, by the way, it’s a fucking beautiful city, but it’s NOTHING like Paris and way too polluted), I think we should spend the rest of the night naked, drunk on o-Spätburgunder, high on TVC and SX-3, crying and fucking and holding each other and letting go of our old, pointless, and sad lives, letting go of the heart-breaking and heart-broken world, until the moment we evaporate in a flash of light inside each other’s arms where we’ve always belonged, Chanchang, since the day we met in that used bookstore in Prenzlauer Berg and you’d bought Azaleas for yourself after getting dumped by a part-time thespian who used to part his hair down the middle, smoke synth-tobacco in an old pipe, and speak in second person.