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Naming something poetry is this easy, whether we'd like to believe so or not. Here she is, the goddess-muse, a red streak laboring across the Amazonian sky, teeth flashing their way forth like those unforgotten minions of the deep sea who lead their ways off to its center. If I buy this wig, and wear it whenever I write, what will I be deemed to be?
Where is the beauty in beauty products? In their design, yes, but, presumably, in their end result.
Truthfully, Revlon and I are set to the same creative grindstone. Truthfully, they've done a better job than me at grinding out said ineffable beauty. Luckily, they are providing me with this easy way to put on beauty like a hat. A hat that appears to be real. That turns reality, perpetually, like Wordsworth turning his crystal daffodils between two facing mirrors in the dusklight of yore. Real truth folds on itself.
I can only offer my humble gratitude. Revlon, vous me maître.