I try to be sincere about the borders of my heart.

I try to be sincere about the borders of my heart. So don’t try to sell me your genuine fakes.

It doesn’t matter in which mall you operate, the sun will rise tomorrow on a new day in which you ply your filthy trade. Just a warning though, the angels are watching you, while you work the marble-clad halls of this god forsaken town. Alas, our world is a bad imitation, of cheap knockoffs sold as gold.

It’s unbelievable. Someone call the cops.

The biggest deal is Sandton’s trade in fake Hermès (naturally). There are clasps and buckles set in over-priced crap, like old car parts, the wrong way, rusted into cheap leather that only ignorant, over-ambitious collectors will stop at nothing to own.

Saturday at the mall is like a feverish dream, only the stores that pretend to sell Birkins and Labubus flog lucky packet charms, made on an island somewhere over the rainbow. These are not your average items, they’re less than average, they’re the poor relations of some ideal, around here few have seen.

It’s so sad that the city pretends to be something that it really isn’t. Let’s just try to be our authentic selves, shall we, without flogging fake junk to the masses