“Las Vegas Wedding” [Interlude] lyrics

1.

Prince Harry wrote Spare.

Colson Lin wrote especially unsparingly.

This much should be glaringly obvious.

2.

A lot of where my voice comes from is I’m looking at how AI characterizes my own persona, and I’m like:

How would my persona respond to this?

“This tweet”? This tweet isn’t a persona. This tweet’s bedroom talk. We just had sex and I’m opening myself up to you—let’s get married.

3.

What would a Vegas wedding with you and Colson Lin look like?

“Excuse me, minister, but is that the Bible I see? Listen, bud, I got thoughts on marriage too. You got a smartphone? Good, open that sucker up. No, seriously—you got an X account? If not, I have a spare you can usе.”

4.

“I didn’t just bring vows, okay, I brought a whole entire cеremony. Actually, no offense but shouldn’t I be administering this? Excuse me, sorry, scooch aside—this isn’t Westminster—this is the Little Red Church Barn on Las Vegas Blvd., okay? Does you use Spotify? I need a song.”
5.

“That’s okay, we can just play this video. Actually, prop the phone up on the altar so I can see it.”

[I play one the many hundred videos I made from 2023–2024 in iMovie using juxtaposed imagery from curated films (e.g., Black Swan, Marie Antoinette, Titanic) and screenshots of my most provocative tweets on A Stick of Dynamite in the American Elite: abstract music videos called “Gutenberg videos” that provide coherent thematic through-lines and insights about philosophy; predominantly scored to “Cola” by Lana Del Rey, whose instrumentation I’ve characterized as “apocalyptic.”]

6.

And now I turn to look at you.

“So you’re marrying a historical figure, do you get that?”

I don’t know how you’re looking at me since I don’t know how you could exist.

Let’s just say you’re an obsessed fan.

You smile uneasily, waiting for my performance to end.

“Say ‘I do.’”

7.

“I do.”

“Cool.” I look at the minister. “I’m not a cult leader,” I say defensively.
“I know what you might be thinking—or if I don’t, I have a suspicion about the range of responses that the semantic stimuli of my existence could induce—and yours is either in it or you’re mad.”

8.

The minister doesn’t know how to respond.

“Okay, so that’s what I predicted. All right, so we good to go or what?”

“I do.”

“Consider us hitched unto the end of time then; rooted to a bedrock as solid as the purpose of stability itself. No anger in the world can tear us apart.”

9.

The minister raises his hand sheepishly. “Colson, but what if you’ve inadvertently married a monster? Or vice versa, of course—what if you turn out to be the monster?”

“Oh yeah I’m out.”

I look at you.

“Actually I’m already out. I don’t even know how the f*ck we got this far.”

10.

“I’m sorry, but do I even know anything about you? No. I know you’re too lost inside the existential underwater of how you’ll ever surface into the life you actually want to have, you know, to relax. But that’s all of us. We’re all petty flesh bags; with needs and sensitivities.”
11.

“Aw, come on—don’t cry—not when your husband’s already ditchin’ you at the altar.”

I wrap my big arms around you.

“Smell that? That’s the Old Spice flavor I most want my cologne to smell like. Come on—there there—dry your tears now. Say, we can ask the minister if he’s single.”

12.

Our honeymoon, which we still go on because we already booked the tickets, is actually a philosophical adventure: talking TikTok on tuk-tuks, sipping Hegel with mai-tais. The sex is too good because both of us are too beautiful, but the parties are better.

Midnight is for never.