meet me in saint louis, louis,
meet me at your crumbling mansion, half filled with what's left of a lifetime of memories. of autograph requests, ball invites, and newspaper clippings you must have either lovingly cut out yourself or one of your staff did for you. either way, you cared enough to keep it all, and it's rotting away in a trash bag, or where i left them strewn about that bizarre 70s style room.
its strange to walk through a home filled with memories of people that you've only seen on the screen or read about, and see that their shit is just as worthless in the long run. maybe thats why i hold on to things, that maybe the previous owner is still lingering and not quite forgotten in my appreciation of whatever object it is.
despite that, there are no words to describe how fucking happy i was to be there, to see it, and to be in such good company, documenting the whole thing.
can't help but wonder why your lovely home is left to rot and fall apart. and what had been painted on all those canvas' in the yard...
the proofs in the photos ....
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