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41 Elegy, Horribly Glamorous For the original goth-girls Somehow all of our clothes came off in the train wreck and a bag of gold powder carried by a fellow traveler exploded all over us . . . our cartoon fatalism turned to a grotesque macabre. Increasingly, we blurted out cruel truths: thumbnail sketches of our heightened states of mind. What was this particular digression? A magical and wholly made-up life of matadors and funnel cakes. Sometimes we sang—rude and violent ballads. Sometimes we painted—the strangeness of fancy dress and high bohemia. Sometimes we treated ourselves to hallucinogens, with well-deserved respect. The sexiest couple in Kalamazoo, we never, well, you know . . . Sometimes our hair was lacquered back so tight the sight of it in store-mirrors hurt us. But exhibitionism is disguise, and the door of death is made of gold that mortal eyes cannot behold. ...

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