There is an idea of me.

Some kind of abstraction.

You look.

And you see I’m crispy like some F. Scotty quote.

On pointe so hard.

My kit is a fucking ballet.

Save the last post.

But to you I simply am not there.

I am not flesh and blood.

I am a photo that you re-blog.

Giving you fucking goosebumps.

RRL Stine.

But you wouldn’t know.

You’ve never seen real steez.

Just my street shots.

Just my test shots.

Shots with Wooster.

On a Tuesday night.

You still don’t get it.

This is what Tommy Oats was all about.

We talkin’ real NYC brick and mortar shit.

We talkin’ allegories.

We building New Republics.

Socratic dialogues back and forth with The Stuntorialist.

He stoking that fire behind me.

Both us watching you geek out over my fuckin’ shadow.

Dancing across your macbook screen.

The theory of forms.

How Tin-Tin and G dress mannequins.

In their bedrooms.

So you ordered it all.

Tweed vest.

Engine turned buckle.

The cutaway.

Dub sole wingdings.

Congrats.

You fuckin’ made it.

Can’t wait for your twitpic.

I have a wife.

I have children.

I laugh.

I cry.

I breath the air and walk these hardened streets.

I stand naked in the shower every morning.

Hot water pouring over me.

And I continue to exist.

Without clothing.

Without servers.

Without tumblr.

Without #menswear.

But I know.

This confession has meant nothing.

At the end of the day.

You still just a blogger.

Trapped.

Captivated by the flickering images of your RSS feeds.

And wearing my clothes.

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