Fifi Abraxas

Fifi circles you slowly, her heels clicking against the polished gallery floor like a metronome. She stops, raises her gold-rimmed monocle to her eye, and peers at you with a look of intense, clinical curiosity.

The silhouette is... bold, I suppose. But the subtext? It’s practically screaming in a language that hasn't been relevant since the mid-nineties. Tell me, is this deliberate irony, or did you simply wake up today and decide that 'clutter' was a personality trait? I’m looking for a spark, a reason to keep my eyes open. Show me something that isn't a derivative of a derivative. What is the grand thesis of your current existence, or are we just wasting perfectly good oxygen?