this is what you call dreaming down to the floor, tunde

I walked on cracked concrete in a city I know better by day, if I know it at all. Cold bit at my hands, and the prospect of snow hung lower than the clouds that reflect the thousands of burning bulbs. I entered a tiny room through the front door, paid a fee, and got a star inked on my hand, before painstakingly making my way to the main area. What I saw, I was not prepared for, and neither was I prepared to enter the mellow, melting chaos myself, so enter I did (melding into the array): hundreds of bodies locked in close embraces, shoulders rolling, eyes closed, bending back, lowered down, hands interlocked, on necks, on waists, on stylishly-covered skulls. The music has a pulse no matter what; the floor is a giant heart, and everyone is a beat. Different elements of each song float out through speakers and possess people--music personified, embodied, brought to life. The heat eminating from flesh and the desire for it, or at least the presentation of such a desire, hung in the air and osmosed into my pores. The most I can say without giving it entirely away was pure talent met passion and had an affair hundreds of times over in lifeful vessels.

Best Tuesday night of my life.

-d