The void, the abyss, and the Kafkaesque, well-nigh Nietzschean lacuna in the fashion faux pas of that hat, that, as it were, near-Jamesian chapeau, appearing as one of Rimbaud's chauteaux, crying aloud in the season of the pale chartreuse trees beneath which he sipped his lime-flower tea, for adornment with something more purely Wilde than wormwood, gave a fey quality of conundrum to his otherwise grave demeanor, served with a wistful melancholy, on a bed of panache . . . with croutons.
Fan # 11, therefore.
Read the Article at HuffingtonPost
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