Bradford Gray Telford

Marc Jacobs in Reverie on How Timing is Everything

as when he breathed in all of New York City at that very moment heroin chic billowed and lurched through all the blocks south of 14th Street--

wheeling like an errant Macy's float--

a float knocking down pregnant mothers and formerly good teens while slamming lawyers hard against lampposts--

and he and his shame would walk to the corner of Second and Fourth--

back when Second and Fourth was a real place with real desperation--

back when Second and Fourth was not the Thomas Kinkade painter of light desperation that can be bought by those mall walkers, walking all over the Mall of America--

which now walks and lurches all over Manhattan--