Catwalk

Not only do I agree—it’s the only correct opinion.

It’s brash. It’s glamorous. It’s cocaine in sonic form—throbbing synths, manic energy, a sneer disguised as a chorus. It's not just a song—it’s a runway strut through apocalypse, wearing sequined arrogance and Revlon regret. Think neon sweat. Think mirrored trays. Think Duran Duran without the conscience.