On the top floor of New York’s Dover Street Market, the realization that the universe rearranges itself around Juice WRLD hits me like a large gulp of promethazine. On the bottom floor of the retailer, guards are ordered to refuse entrance to customers with beverages; Juice oozes past them with a styrofoam cup fizzing with purple liquid. Inside, he shops like he’s a contestant on Supermarket Sweep. He grabs Maison Margiela sneakers, Marni sweatsuits, Prada sweaters, and OAMC overalls (retail price? Just about $5,500) and passes them off to the VIP shopper trailing him. (The clothes will materialize later in his room at the Dream Hotel.) Fans orbit him, waiting for a chance to however briefly penetrate his atmosphere. Even God dims the lights for the arrival of emo-rap’s dark prince, breaking a string of sunny days with rain that gushes like one of Juice’s heartbroken teenage fans. And when the universe does not anticipate Juice’s needs in time, he takes matters into his own hands. So, on the top floor of Dover Street Market, Juice woozily bends over and takes the blue and silver metallic Margiela clogs by the heels from their designated perch on a white for-display-only chair and slumps into it.