We realize our savvy via our discounts and the quantity of syllables uttered by others and directed towards us, imprinted on tape. I'm asking you a question. Light falls muted and gold on the silence clustered at their table. Lydia's father Josef puts down his silverware and gives his daughter a look. One small ceremony after another slips by, hollow and unrecorded, Lydia senses.
Rites of passage present themselves and go unnoticed.
Lydia raises her glass of Pouilly Fuisse and takes a sip. She moves through the air and picks things up, turns, and puts them down again without once thinking to arrest herself, to open her third eye and gaze upon the lacustrine horizons that exist within. She is thoroughly scheduled and pleasantly in control. Despite those mornings when she's caught off guard just before she wakes, when she is ajar with an oceanic tug that seems, momentarily, to always be there, residing deep within. She comes from a tensile belief in endless options, she feels, from an almost genetic and yet carefully reasoned clarity as to when losses should be cut.