xNewResolution

The painted faces of harlequin girls line the streets, their little heads filled with big burlesque dreams. (Whips and chains are all a girl really needs.) Peripheral dancers clad in black enlighten the guests, corsets tight but their subregions tighter. Makeup is their physical facade. Slow eyes never blink through faux lashes. But black clad dancers once had their faces painted white, too. Red smears embellish the collars of passerbys and the sky starts to drain. Street lights kiss the dark and the harlequin mothers are calling their harlequin daughters inside. But now those harlequin daughtes are trading innocence for a bottle of