GG: Hi, Tilda.
TS: Hello, dear girl. That’s quite an outfit.
GG: Thanks. It’s… fine? My stylist sent it, and the top seemed like wearing a really expensive Z Gallerie rug, and I’m just so tired from the Oscars so that sounded really comfortable. I didn’t even deal with my head. Who has time to think about this right now, you know?
TS: My monochromatic ensemble is meant to convey the baseline state of bleak blankess into which we’re born — do we feel? Can one feel, when one has yet to see? — and then the jacket envelops it with a nubbly, textural, palpable feeling of hope and optimism, like the sun coming into orbit and everything dark feeling light again, except of course on one side the despair is creeping in and slowly eating away at the happiness because really life is just trying to cram in pleasure between total eclipses and with every day we step closer back to the eternal darkness from which we came, ending where it all begins.
GG: … Seriously?
TS: No, I’m thoroughly fucking with you. I bought this on clearance on my way here.