Summary
March 18, 2026 at 12:50 AM
What exactly are moths?
It’s blood-red eyes hiding behind Tom Ford lenses, catching the glare of toxic neon.
It’s a black Bottega bag tossed onto the passenger seat of an eighty-grand convertible. Inside: coke, prescription pills, acid. Everything you need to slaughter a feeling.
You’re flying a hundred miles an hour down a dead highway. The wind scorching your retinas.
A cop lights you up. The stench in the cabin is enough to melt plastic. The cop rests his hand on his holster. Shines a flashlight straight into your blown pupils.
You take off the sunglasses. Slowly. And you smile. “Is there a problem, Officer?”
He looks at the car. At your face. He swallows hard. “No problem at all, sir. Have a safe night.”
You drive on. Pop a couple more pills under your tongue, wash them down with warm mineral water. Slam the gas.
Speeding straight toward that neon-yellow American Dream millions of idiots pray for.
And you’re living it. Drowning in a sinkhole of high-gloss indulgence that makes you want to puke your own guts out.
