The fashion director gives the nod and we broach the catwalk. We step out under the lights. Life is a moral fashion show, and God is watching us under the hot, bright lights. And the crowds raise an eyebrow and make notes as we strike virtuous poses and swing around in virtuous motions. Things happen. We stumble. Curtain rods fall on our heads. But we keep walking. Step here, step there. Trying not to mimic what the other models are doing. Trying to do it how we want to do it. But we all have 2 legs and a desire for dark chocolate. We all vomit and starve ourselves before the show. We nod to one another, conscientious of what we are supposed to be conscientious of. We're well informed, misinformed, then re-informed of everything we were misinformed of. We don't know what's true. We puke. We change suits and walk back out, with practiced strides, immune to the lights. All we see are Pharisees. Where is the fashion director? Where is the judge of this show?