Fastened in the frame of her gilt dressing mirror, an aging corsage, a shriveled carnation fragile as paper and gray with dust bound in tulle and frayed ribbons. Hand in gloved hand on a garden walk in moonlight, air redolent with the scent of lilies A heady, waxy, funereal perfume, it was all known for the first time. Filmy stockings and heavy canvas girdle flung over the back of her dressing table chair, a hasty and disordered undressing, somehow there's no longer time to hang the clothing properly. She glares at her reflection over a green stoneware cup of strong coffee. She lifts her well-loved tube of coral-orange lipstick to the light, a profound fallacy against her ruddy, sleepless skin and worried pallor. A candle is burning down to the quick. At night by flickering light she writes letters to the same people who have replaced themselves completely in ten years. "We are all strangers. Pierre, even you."
Asian ball-jointed dolls, vintage Superstar Barbie and similar, paper dolls, porcelain dolls.