Finding closure. Wandering through the lanes of unrequited twin love. Losing one’s syntax. Tormenting technologies with impossible ghosts. Unfolding the golden curtains of ataraxia. Daydreaming that grief is not the answer. Skyping to the ethereal skies. Das Hobellied sparkling on a Chanel mirage in an adamantine night. Reenchanting the bruised Place de la République with sliding doors and phantasmic elevators. Texting the fear of Otherness through the Chunnel. Lighting cigarettes of oblivion. Mingling Victor Hugo with Hilma af Klint. Procrastinating mirrors, flying glasses and meandering jewelry boxes. Tacking in black corset in abandoned sheets. Perpetuating the flamboyant memory of the beloved lost soul. Piercing the Parisian night like a floating meteor. Reinventing solitude to come to terms with the abysmal pain. Transfixing chimera dematerializing in secluded dark rooms. Boarding the Arabian Gate to alleviate the abyssal absence. Beseeching the clouds for an impossible answer. Raving in lamé. Catapulting digital words frantically. Stealing the sublimated wardrobe of Irma Vep through the corridors of time. Convoking and rehabilitating a demonlover with an eternal stroke. Looking daggers at the resilient heart. Searching the exhausted ventricle. Parading on borrowed high heels at the core of the night in a deserted apartment. Levitating pedestal tables in sepia. Eviscerating the body double. Closing the eyelids in quest of a miracle. Releasing the imperial arteries of childhood. Lurking through thundering walls. Sobbing in a clinical wagon. Fighting catatonia with open arms.

This is Personal Shopper.

Or is it just me?