[these days, kavinsky enjoys himself designer jeans and buttondown shirts, boots on his feet. it represents some kind of growth from the old days-- a stylistic progression from tank tops and sneakers. but you can't survive a suicide attempt without learning something from it, even if you're joseph kavinsky. besides, he's in new york now instead of new jersey or virginia, and no offense to jersey or virginia, but that's worth commemorating.
some things remain the same.
his arteries sing with cocaine, and the crowd sings for him. or at least-- well, you know. that's how it feels. in reality, probably more than half these people give zero fucks about him— he doesn't win every time. far from it. the other half is only here because they want pills. maybe there's a third phantom half because they want to fuck him, divided up between the rest. he doesn't mind, though. the lights, the savage energy seizing through the crowd, the possibility of death wrapped around a lamp post, music pulsing against his skin, his eardrums. he's happy.
and then he body checks himself against this weedy nerd lord. he half recognizes credence, if only because the ricebowl cut of his hair has warranted a cruel, off-handed joke once or twice before, at a distance, as he laid on a hood sprawled over a flunkie's lap or fed beers to one of the interchangeable girls who liked to buy his product at discount rates.
kavinsky's eyes instantly light up with laughter. but he doesn't reach for the low-hanging fruit. not immediately. his blood is hot, a different mood to the cold, serpentine strikes he favors in his downtime.] Hey sweetheart, [he says. his voice is half oil.] You looking for me?
tw suicide, drugs
some things remain the same.
his arteries sing with cocaine, and the crowd sings for him. or at least-- well, you know. that's how it feels. in reality, probably more than half these people give zero fucks about him— he doesn't win every time. far from it. the other half is only here because they want pills. maybe there's a third phantom half because they want to fuck him, divided up between the rest. he doesn't mind, though. the lights, the savage energy seizing through the crowd, the possibility of death wrapped around a lamp post, music pulsing against his skin, his eardrums. he's happy.
and then he body checks himself against this weedy nerd lord. he half recognizes credence, if only because the ricebowl cut of his hair has warranted a cruel, off-handed joke once or twice before, at a distance, as he laid on a hood sprawled over a flunkie's lap or fed beers to one of the interchangeable girls who liked to buy his product at discount rates.
kavinsky's eyes instantly light up with laughter. but he doesn't reach for the low-hanging fruit. not immediately. his blood is hot, a different mood to the cold, serpentine strikes he favors in his downtime.] Hey sweetheart, [he says. his voice is half oil.] You looking for me?