The Pastel Perimeter for Sofia Coppola by Stefano Donno

In the velvet architecture of a hotel hallway, the light is never direct—       it arrives filtered,             the color of a bruised macaron.

You translate the silence of the demimonde, where the cursor blinks like a lonely beacon in a suite overlooking the neon pulse       of a city that speaks in subtitles. There is a specific gravity to the crown, a weightlessness in the Versailles dust—       you find the punk-rock pulse             beneath the stiff brocade of history.

Not the shouting, but the exhale after the shouting stops. The girl on the bed,       a prism of potentiality, watching the dust motes dance in the sun-path—       your lens is a soft-focus witness to the high-fashion ache of being seen             but never quite known.

You stitch the soundtrack to the longing:       a synthesizer’s hum,             a slow-burn distortion, the distance between two bodies in a karaoke booth       rendered as a sprawling,             infinite                   azure