This is a little snippet if description I wrote while on a forced march through an outlet mall this weekend. Feel the melodrama!

Every scrap of fabric emblazoned with labels, he made a show extracting his hundred dollar shades from their leather case, despite the fact that we were in doors. His entire image was manufactured at the command of fashion, I wasn’t sure I could see who he was at all. Even the ink on his arm was comprised of trite and meaningless design, nothing conveying a message beyond the calamitous roar of trend. The worst of it? We’re both dad’s, sitting in a children’s store and waiting for our daughters wardrobes to be filled anew. He’s busy sizing up the merits of the labels he’ll hang on his little girl now, so she can hide behind trend and cool. Who will she be? Will she even know?

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