Fashion, including what it stands for or is defined to be changes in a pace that even a writer cannot keep up with. But for all that it is and it gets to be, one would expect to see remnants of older styles or at least a progression of what used to be becoming what is and what is defining what is to be.
Not in all cases however. Like a river without a source, a direction or even a flow of some sort; how can that still be referred to as a river.
Picture the river, at the moment, dancing with pizzazz, swelling with currents and waves higher than you can imagine. Provocatively carrying everything in its wake, imposing, exposing, revealing, seducing, and yet when you look back the river possesses no signs of being what it is.
Almost like in a competition, it is about who squeezes their shapely or blowsy bodies into the most revealing, and strangling pieces, without even caring if the piece is an under or outerwear. In an case, they are now one and the same thing.
Flowing not with the current but like a flag; without a mind and thus a liking of its own changing direction with the wind. And when the wind is gone, it falls flat on its pole, like fashion does when style is gone.