She grew up in the Chelsea Hotel. A painter for a mother, and a musician for a father. She taught herself chemistry on the fire escape, and french in her mother's studio. Their apartment had dark walls and the Rolling Stones on vinyl. Her father always said, "read books, and your words will flow like rivers."
So she read, and read some more. The Bhagavad Gita, the Tropic of Cancer, Kafka's Metamorphosis. She read about Andy Warhol's factory, and decided someday, she'd have a place like that of her own.
Soon, she became the characters she read about in her books. Her personality split in two, she was this eternal light-being in babydoll dresses, but also this badass blonde in black. Blame it on the books, blame it on New York. She so badly wanted the world to swallow her whole. To cave in on her being and hold her in every indecision and experience.
But maybe she lost touch with reality along the way. Psychosis. She cared little of money, trade, capitalism. These things were not a part of her external reality. Her world was in books, art, ideas, people and places.
Yesterday in her diary she wrote, "I will never ever regret the things I've done. Because most days, all you have is the places you've been and the things you've seen."
xx
stud leather jacket by Nasty Gal
lingerie set by For Love & Lemons