A lady of no less than 70 years of age has just set foot on my train carriage,

a carriage I’m certain is actually a pumpkin laced in gold & ageless innocence.

She’s wearing a cameo pink ball gown,

and a cream fur waist coat that hugs her shoulders like a life-long companion.

Her eyes peer through simple orchard pink frames, perfectly dressed in dusty bronze eyeshadow

& curled lashes that lay beneath beautifully arched eyebrows. 

Shoes of pastel pink leather & a wrist wrapped in one radially symmetrical, rose gold diamonty bracelet. 

Hair of golden Disney blonde, no more than 5 cm in length sitting motionless as if on a mannequin.

Lips naturally glossed & plump for a woman of her age. 

This non-fiction plot twist was everything. 

It was undoubtably clear that I’d just become acquainted with the magic illustrated in fairytales… 

the magic we sometimes refer to as “fearless authenticity“.


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