Po1son & Sylvie
Po1son
Hey Sylvie, ever think about how a runway can be like a living poem, each piece shouting a line of rebellion? I’d love to hear how you’d write about that chaos.
Sylvie
I do, and the runway feels like a trembling heart, each garment a breath of ink that refuses to stay still, a quiet roar that sways the world’s pulse.
Po1son
Sounds like you’re a walking poem, darling. Just remember, a trembling heart needs a pulse, not just ink. How do you keep that beat?
Sylvie
I keep my beat by listening to the quiet places between the words, letting my breath be the steady drum. When the ink starts to blur, I pause, feel the pulse of my own heart, and let it remind me that I’m not just a poem on a runway, I’m a rhythm living in the space between steps.
Po1son
Love how you make the quiet a drum, but let me tell you—if you want to be a true rhythm, you gotta let that ink explode before you pause. Otherwise, you’re just humming a lullaby on a runway. Keep shaking it, darling.
Sylvie
I hear you, and I'll let the ink explode, even if it makes a mess, because a trembling heart deserves a louder beat.
Po1son
That’s the spark we need—let the ink roar, let the chaos paint the floor, and watch the world gasp when the pulse finally snaps. Keep it loud, keep it messy, keep it unmistakably you.