And so, amidst sighs of pleasure and embraces, between a ruin and a sculpted head, the queen of decadence and riotous pleasure amused herself with one of her many favourites, girls who were entirely unaware of what love was, or the difference between love and money. Young maidens, pliable and perhaps not yet ready to possess self-esteem or independence. A sick mechanism, a mechanism entirely of subjugation, lust, and masochism. Amid priceless paintings and debris, walls crumbling to the ground, everything was surrounded by water, rubble, and burning flames.
The commodification of love in exchange for luxurious perfumes, jewels, invitations to high-end venues and renowned taverns in the city of pleasures and romance. It was their ridiculous shadow, hiding from the sunlight, because what they had done—and continue to do—could never be revealed. Silence; it could not be spoken, for to bring it to light would carry an incalculable weight on the reputation, especially of the Madame of the decadent Museum.
And so the young damsels clashed amongst themselves, between a duck-lipped selfie in an elevator and a sophisticated photograph in a social media story, flaunting or presenting luxury and major brands, or perfume houses. Everything was slimy, everything ambiguous, everything surrounded by taut strings of tension, of subjugation, of blackmail and submission.
And amidst moans of pleasure, cries of pain, terrifying torments, and tears of tension, the secret parties of the patroness of decay unfolded with her hidden maidens, including those who displayed and paraded their so-called intellectualism among dusty books, shrivelled pastries, and coffee sprawled across books in ostentatious display, with no true intellectual intent whatsoever. And everything was doused in perfume, excessively lustful and dusty, representing one of the maidens who smoked incessantly, hiding herself among expensive and useless antiquities.
And the temple of art continued to fall, to fall into the abyss of oblivion, to fall into the chasm of destruction and obliteration, for this had been decreed amid the laughter and moans of pleasure of the patroness and the vehement giggles of her courtesan maidens, who exchanged love for money and positions of power. For a kiss they obtained jewels and perfumes; for an embrace, they gained social standing and a favourable place within the professional sphere.
Meanwhile, art was melting like snow in the infernal caverns filled with lava, and everything was heading toward moral death, the death of beauty, the obliteration of all that was magnificent and wondrous. In place of this, instead of the exquisite wonders painstakingly crafted over the centuries, this circle of mercenary courtesans had replaced it with moral dissolution and the anathema—or propaganda—to destroy all that was sublime and beautiful, substituting it with sugar-laden, gluey cakes, black lace veils made of rancid refuse, and cheap coffee bought from some café stall.
And they all shuddered the moment they posted a story on Instagram or any other social media, waiting for their trusted and ambiguous mistress to view their tales, copied and cribbed from some interior design magazine or fashion house, merely to demonstrate that they were cultured, or displaying pitiful dishes crafted during their weary days, or striking artificial duck-lip poses with the air of an unsatisfied pin-up. Everything they did was to earn even the slightest glance from their mistress, their mistress of the soul, their mistress of the heart—the one to whom they owed not only their social standing but all their possessions and costly gifts—and so they squeaked with diligence whenever their mistress and lover emitted even the smallest sound or command. They resembled little puppets at the court of decay and dissoluteness.

And they were all silenced, and sighs of silence, sighs of pleasure and anguish were all mingled in a magical cauldron, annihilating personality and independence. What they proclaimed as feminism was, in reality, a sort of mush of ideologies, like geishas dependent on a form of power embodied in a figure who should have represented their protector, but was instead merely an exploiter of her own ego, brimming with narcissism and self-reference.
Their hearts beat like those of young lovers, eyes wide with hearts, faces illuminated, proclaiming love, when in truth it was only a matter of economic and social gain. And so countless amorous dedications appeared on their social media, or even more “intellectual” or cloying references, with traces of glue, sugar, and cigarette butts, remnants of long-dead lipsticks from some past era. Each of them forcibly sought to impose her image as triumphant, yet in reality, they were soulless dolls, their strings manipulated and pulled by their mistress. And these puppets, with their human female semblances, were entirely dependent, under the spell of a being who exploited their stupidity to uphold an image of herself that did not exist at all.
And these soulless little dolls, who cackled or gasped with anxiety and pleasure, asked themselves every day, Will I please her? Will I be worthy to meet her in some hidden bed or in some gloomy, luxuriant, indulgent alcove? Their morning question was always, Will I be chosen today for the encounters in the pleasure alcoves? Will I receive the lavish and lustful gift, I mean the expensive one?
And amidst moans of pleasure and tears of pain, and the marks of suffering, of anguish, etched upon their bodies and souls, they lived in psychological torment and dependence, like barnyard birds confined within a high-walled enclosure. Their independence and freedom were utterly subjugated by a stronger will. And they silenced themselves, were silenced by the wind of rumours and gossip, which might dangerously seep through windows and corridors of ancient walls, where dilapidated fragments of antique art lay amidst mud, fire, and water.
And so they continued, endlessly, their tormented existence, amidst moans of pain and pleasure, mingled with uncertainty about their ranking in a long list of maidens vying for the pole position, striving each day to excel with perfect impressions, flawless selfies, or carefully copied images from some magazine or luxury poster. Or why not, from the display of a patisserie. Yes, because in the end, Milo had been buried under heaps of cigarette ashes, smoked between spasms and tears by one of the maidens who, with suave sophistication, flaunted her décolleté to proclaim her elegance and beauty—yet it was all false, non-existent, self-proclaimed.
And why not, perhaps the next day… the maiden of stale pastries and depressing soundtracks, who self-styled herself as an accomplished writer, might claim her day of triumph in rain or snow, perfect for showing her images of ostentatious happiness and saccharine, contrived existence. And where is authenticity? Where is love? Where is true culture and the passion for art? Well, it is unknown, for everything is veiled by screams of hypocrisy, pretence, and stagecraft, like a theatre set where the actors are puppets, their strings frayed and worn by daily use, kept aloft by their mistress for the audience. No—not for the audience, but for herself, for her private spectacle.
Elisabetta Esther