SCARLETT’S LETTERS: A Secret Homelessness

Dear James —

I am walking. Walking. The runway is endless. Literally, it’s a marathon with only one row of seating, and mass of bodies clustering behind it. We were told to run, twice through, while keeping our cool. I’m wearing what hasn’t been seen before. Slightly afraid the Egyptian-esque tubular hat will fly off my small head. This is not my first time strutting down the catwalk; still, adrenaline kicks in, helps me keep up pace.  Adrenaline encourages me. All you got to do is walk. The world’s fashion elite are watching me. Watching as I walk. Flashes from their little snappers.