She’s turning classic, giving her own meaning to the term; narrowing down the choice, detailed somewhat scant, precision stripped to it’s bareness, it’s natural sequence, towards her neo-persona.
Her attire mimics her stride, the now subsided curves of her limbs hide in asexual elegance, they dissolve in the comings and goings of morning coffee, the routines of cats, the crowded city street at noon. She’s polishing the silver, but only the pieces she intends to keep; arranges the china, but only for real and good tea. She washes her hair with the uncomplicated suds of a boutique formula, that may last half the year. Her beauty regimes now high end simplicity, barely a fuss when she massages her skin with primrose oil.
She’s letting the techno-boom be, whatever she can accomplish is fine, no push. Her efforts follow the precise formula: desire plus outcome divided into what means are at her disposal right now, and won’t worry beyond that point. The world’s gotten so meta-modern, she knows it’s beyond her and her formula for peace. She’s returning to her future, full neo-classical woman.
She demands her foods be real, nourishing, prepared so that her body feels sure it’s been loved. She’ll only listen to textured sound, layered music, vibrant creations worth her time, and lyrics that mean something more than the obvious. She wants clean air, her days fluid, uninterrupted. Sustenance had without excessive show or exhibition, the comeback of exact restriction, to keep the natural flow of time, the ways of being that won’t push to dissociation, the ways of waiting, and kindness.
She’s gone classic on her own terms. Poignant, needy, dependent love, won’t do anymore, it lost all color. Now she hunt’s for vintage classic with romantic undertones, a simple handful of healthy roses. She’s her grandmother anew, the Venusian’s version of crone, returning to the garden where her kind conceived a real home, where it came to be.