I remember stumbling through SoHo, New York. None of us had eaten, and we were wandering through these little boutiques which held cracked china tea cups, and dresses made from spidersilk that no one could really afford. The scarves in the shops looked so gentle that they almost weren’t real, like they were an illusion, something spun by a spirit to tempt us into thinking we could buy beauty. I remember feeling tired, feeling shabby, feeling like I wasn’t enough to be allowed to walk beneath high rise apartments with creeping vines, and fire escapes. You wore burgundy jeans, the denim dyed clinging to your legs, and a singlet which hinted at a middrift. You were given dubious looks, but you, in your black leather high tops, didn’t care. You knew who you were, you knew your style, and you looked beautiful. I thought you knew you were beautiful. I remember you ducking into a boutique and coming out fifteen minutes later holding a vintage cream lace bra and matching panties. I couldn’t imagine you wearing them, but you held the packet close to your chest, and smiled. We were all confused as to why you would want to buy vintage lingerie, but I see now that you were just in love with the beauty of things. I remember you smiling while you ate bruschetta, and laughed while drinking freshly squeezed juice. We flew out to L.A. the next day, but I remember you, forever frozen in SoHo, and beautiful.