Fashion’s desideratum is to forward its own death. Euthanasia as her innovation. Those who master it immortalized through a kind of Buddhist reincarnation. As spectators of this sick collective sport, it’s not the mummified bodies of old that disgusts us but the freshly decomposing carcass of today. But Strada necrophiliaizes this rotting flesh. Revivifying, for the cheap seats at the back, the exhausted Y2K depopification of the past few years…box pleated ubermini skirts, Studded belts, Rhinestoned jeans, Grunge slips, gingham checks, free-the-nipple-as-nipple-fastenings, milkmaid corsetry. The Netflixified casting a cherry on top.