This is a summer story. For how would our bodies know to move through the Metropole without seasons? Wake up, my little flâneur, for summer in the city waits for no one, and wastes for nothing. It's iced latte season outside in the Coffeecore Extended Universe, but indoors you're permitted everything, poured out in tiny porcelain cups. What does it matter now, that the world is balmy? Radiate your heat freely. It needs no conservation.
You see yourself reflected in the blush-tinted mirror above your pink sheets, your boudoir strewn with pillows, as you would have it no other way. You put a crown of baby's breath in your hair, the little white buds coming out of the tentative melancholy of cold spring, the sprigs against the length of your inadvisable and newly shorn bangs, the ones that met with the kitchen scissors once at 3 AM. You flash your teeth at yourself confidently, in the know. If the shoulder pads are imaginary, they are all the bigger for it. Come on, princeling of the sidestreets, up and at 'em!