Pure   The silk spun from a worm, the sea’s forget-me-not blue, a newly born human unmarked by the world, the word queening a hoarding and slyly inserted in the caption underneath: A Life of Pure Style and Indulgence. To whet the appetite a photo of a room juts into sky. I note the polished floor, slender-legged lamps, faux leather furniture, insistent wall screen, picture window – no welcoming pet, pot plant, teapot, open book. What’s pure, I ask the paving stones, about stirring up desire to wine and dine expensively while watching pulp TV in a room concocted in…