Scowl, James Sandham

I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by Ed Hardy and Armani Exchange, stripped of eunoia by garish graphics and systems of insidious ostentation manipulative of symbolic prestige. I’ve watched the minds of my generation’s young and ambitious, fertile to impression, laid to waste through gradual enculturation to sensory confusion, the migration of imagery from biceps to sweatshirts, to high-top sneakers and back to flesh again: a confusion of body and derangement of soul. I’ve watched Dov Charney orchestrate symbiotic concurrent operations, tactical variations of strategy pre-packaged to seem abrasively blasé – but image-obsessed all the same. And as equally insane. So I struggle to wake myself from this white hot fever, half-gripped with fear and drenched wet, anxious for anecdotes to tell myself about myself, but only to find a squandered history of symbolic warfare, esoteric hieroglyphics a hip fifteen minutes from mystery. That’s my history. And I have no dreams, save one: I dream that I’m dreaming I’ve lost my iPhone. And I never want to wake up. Never.