Here we sit, both a bit stunted. We rest, we wonder. In this gilded city built for opulence and show, what face to wear? We need to impress, but we’re tired. Tired of the garb, tired of gild: our clothes are off and we’re happy. With the grass growing between our feet and the sun on our naked backs, we embrace the simultaneity of this purgatory. A place somewhere between atrophy and amelioration. Feels good. Soon we will be dressed, our makeup on. Isn’t he pretty? But now we are pure, rooted in the ground, solid in our stripped opulence.