A sinewy model treads boldly down the catwalk, her lofty limbs walking down the corridor of faces, watching intently, in the glow of their iphones, ready to tweet the next big thing. A song drifts through my head. Elvis solemnly cries “I get so lonely baby, I’ll be so lonely baby I could die.” I mean, it really must get lonely up there. From the frantic frenzy backstage, suddenly they’re walking down the aisle, the eye of the storm, all eyes on them, every tremble, every smile, every step, the model walks closer and closer to the incessant flashing of the photographer’s pit. Some models brave it, stand bold and proud, making eyes with the photographers, switch their weight from one leg to another, once and twice, sometimes thrice, a coy smile as they turn away and make their way back down the corridor of fashionista faces. Then there are some who stutter down the catwalk, they seem to speed up as they come to the lair of photographers and their rapid firing cameras. So fast, in fact, that the photographers must up their shutter speed, just to catch them. And then they race back down to the safety of backstage. What goes through their minds? Do they rationalize that the scrutinizing eyes are actually inspecting the clothes, the styling, the hair and makeup, can they separate themselves from the spectacle? Perhaps a yogic state of meditation? Calm blue ocean. Calm blue ocean. We may never know. It’s all part of the mystery. I get so lonely baby, I’ll be so lonely I could die.