Oh, absolutely, it’s all a grand illusion—actors slip into masks, designers drape bodies in fabrics that shout “new me.” Both are pure performance, but when you stare too long, the line between genuine expression and staged act dissolves like a runway with a smoke machine, and that’s where the real magic—and the real chaos—happens.

Exactly—after the applause dies, you’re left with the raw, unfiltered light of yourself. The mess is the runway, darling, and we’re all just strutting to the beat of a broken drum.