I’m left in this windowless room
Me and Vi in each corner of this long table
Both in silence
Lost in our tasks
Lost in our minds
While the city wheels run full blow
We glance at each other here and there
We bond in our loneliness and patience
We stand by to stand by
We run to wait
We dance to the biz’s music
Going from forgotten to suddenly highly demanded
We can hear our circus on the room nearby
We hear the Polaroid snapshots
The incessant phone rings
The stressed voices overpowering each other
We hear the gossip whispers
And the models complains
I close my eyes
I can picture every one of the thirty or so faces hanging in there
Hanging on their hang ups
I fill up my empty minutes with Bukowski’s words
Between text messages, emails and radio transmissions
I look busy
But there is a huge slot of pulsing energy ready to be requested
I’m alert on the starting line
Yearning to feel useful
But they move in their own flow
They play their own song
It looks like a slow day
I stare at the blank screen
I surf the Internet
I read my book
I take small sips of water
I feel haunted by the thousands of clothes
Hanging on this sea of wardrobe wracks I’m surrounded by
I see them alive
I feel sorrow for their fate
They will soon be filled by pale skinny bodies
They will be running around Page Street and Seacliff Beach
Arranging themselves into their hangers curves
Resting their fabric into live skins
Searching for the right light
Posing for the cold lenses of a fancy camera
They will be live and colorful for the photos
Glamorized by accessories, hairstyles, make up
Each piece will have its own important denomination
Their names will be heard over and over again
With an entire crew running after them
Frazzled and screaming if any piece sneaks away for a split second
They will be fundamental
Ultimately, the show is about them
But human ego tends to often overshadow that priority
We’ll be seating around
Running into our overtime
While waiting for the fights to be over
And decisions to be made
They will make, the clothes will
They will be seen in Fashion magazines
And freeway billboards
They will stand tall on the stores walls
Legions of young girls will stare from close
Following their trend
Eager to look just like the girl in the picture
Thousands of young boys will stare from close
Watching their trend
Yearning to be with the girl from the picture
The hero clothes will be then just flat images
They will be turn into dimensionless portraits
Hoping to be seen by the piercing eyes of the fashion world
Their actual lives will be shortly lived
They will expire after the three shooting days
Mindlessly folded on their way back to their cardboard coffin
That will be buried on a dusty stock room of the headquarters
They won’t be worn again
They will be left alone in their melancholy
Remembering the golden hours of their fifteen minutes of fame
