They’re all here waiting. Anxiously swaying on the Sabbath. Impatiently jostling for better sight lines. Blinking with the neuroses that begin to take root when the face of the messiah will never be revealed, no matter how many months of rent are sacrificed for a “Jester on Dice” Homer pendant studded with nine lab-grown diamonds and 18 karats of gold.
Zoom in (3x) on the TikTok sorority blonds with the matching jean shorts and white Chucks and “I <3 Frank Ocean” baby tees. The Cobra Kai–headbanded and Jokic-jerseyed consultants who scrawled “Frankchella” on their Jeep Wranglers before plodding east from Venice. The sensitive pilgrims with twice as many stick-and-poke lyric tattoos as their idol has albums, traveling thousands of miles for the resurrection, who crouched like sprinters at the starter’s block and stampeded to the front of the stage as soon as the Coachella gates opened at noon.
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