I have decided to write about clothing. I have decided clothing is the most erotic thing ever invented.

I believe whoever invented clothing accidentally invented the erotic.

Before, there was only the pornographic.

Depending on tightness, an outfit whispers or shouts about the shapes of the body that moves inside of it.

To a true believer in fashion, a nude body is an electric guitar without an amplifier.

The pornographic is holistic. It wants everything simultaneously. The erotic breaks things into pieces, considers one angle at a time, worships the hidden.

Gloves, pants, a hat, a coat. We broke the body into pieces, and every morning we put it back together a little differently.

An outfit is planned in the same way Dr. Frankenstein assembled his monster.

Within my closet lie all the shapes and colors of myself in the world. The only colors are red, black, brown, gray, dark blue. Very few of the shirts have logos. There is one sports coat.
It is hard to imagine a more neutral wardrobe. But I want to.

Straight, white, mid-twenties, Jewish, American, male– I can’t take them off.

Or won’t. Or is there a difference.

Girl in a frightening t-shirt. Her inner feelings draped over her– she is like a shirt turned inside out.

I wanted to define clothing, but it has already defined me and everyone I care about.

I don’t want to be modeling my clothes here, anymore.

I want clothes so inconspicuous that no possible interpretation of me can be ruled out. A blank page. Then the revolution begins.

Then I am you.

The exact equation still eludes me.

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