The primal scream of his thighs groaning against the seams of his unlong trousers

Do I have a personality or do I just have a lot of teeth?

This question is keeping me awake at night.

Sometimes it feels like everyone is either dressed as Carolyn Bessette-Kennedy with an alice band, a girl in Euphoriashowing up to math class, or a press-tour Sugababe. Behold! This archive Olsen pic.

It’s hard to work out quite what Ashley’s wearing here—sails from the Marie Celeste? Disposable wipes from the pandemic? All the sheets from a Lenor ad?—but the machete is doing a lot of talking, cutting through the ethereal-ness with a biting edge rarely found outside a hot vampire showing their fangs in a horror film. She is a Hare Krishna with a weapon, a puritan with a vendetta. She is drinking the clarified blood of her enemies, a nectar to power her revenge. She is roving the wilderness as we watch on, powerlessly agog.

At a wedding on shrooms, I once found myself in the crawlspace between an ancient tapestry and a Unesco wall. I could barely breathe for the dust, but I’m glad I wasn’t mashing up a raw silk suit.

I’m loathed to say it, because of the Paul Mescal-ery, but boxers shorts are the only way through heatwaves this summer, with Magnum PI being the epicentre of the trend, the primal scream of his thighs groaning against the seams of his unlong trousers. These are the kind of legs that distract you during a romace swindle. Embrace the off duty millionaire playboy-ness of it all. It’s giving yacht might actually be the mantra of the summer.

Nude knickers by Tom Ford.

Butter yellow is getting as tired as an exhausted popstar at the end of a world tour, but there’s still time for butter yellow and margarine yellow in tandem.