Come down the runway looking real cute. No, cute is for ordinary people, plebeians. You’re above that. You’re stunning. Square off your jaw, maintain perfect angles, become a living sculpture. All eyes on you—as they should be. Begin to walk. Let the fabric flow around your body in a tornado of beauty, opulence.
You’re doing the damn thing. Living your dreams. Fashion week in Paris. Croissants, champagne, parties, after-parties. It’s all happening right now. Doing it big like Kate Moss and Naomi Campbell back in the day. Left your hometown for the first time ever, to go to Paris. This is your coronation. You’re the latest in a line of exceptionally beautiful motherfuckers. Princes and princesses of the universe, we carry on.
Glide down the runway. Float down that motherfucker. Goddamn levitate. Stop. Take it in, all the flashes the “oohs”, the “ahhhs”, all for you. Hit em full power, hold that pose. Sear your image into the retina of a buyer in the fourth row. With each picture you become immortal. They crowd is enraptured, fucking enthralled. Bask in it. You’re doing it, living every dream.