...a deathly serenade...

Yashu’s spite: Beauty is a whore, he said slightly
tipsy from V.I.P wine. Although I debate this still
— his tipsiness was exaggerated to hide the bitter
abyss Yashu had equated to by that time. Chiming
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA in, as they all do, my literary executor, who I may
say is wholly obsessed with the writings of Georges
Perec, felt that Vanity. Key was pretty, clearly
overhearing Yashu’s sleight after the applause,
clamouring to the fame. This was after he had
published it. Nonsense! V.I.P wine! Another
Duchamp Consensus! Distracted by interviews,
critics and members of The Powers I was not able
to make a response to Yashu that night as Leila and
Yashu left the stage and the West End Auditorium.
Though in Islington the next day I spoke to Leila
about how she felt about the play, with her eyes
glazed — perhaps insomnia ridden — she looked at
me as if she were looking straight through me and
hesitated to form a response… I hadn’t known
Leila to withhold an opinion on such matters.
Standing in the Islington hallway in silence I
became distracted by Yashu’s spite the night
previous and said that his behaviour was the final
straw. Of this Leila said that she could understand.
Who or what did she understand? In hindsight I
can’t remember what exactly or who she was
referring to, but she nodded that she understood
something. She then explained that in a bid to
complete his new work and become exactly the
Artist he wanted to be — against the wishes of the
providers of the V.I.P wine and his Art dealers —
Yashu had decided that he was no more a Public
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