Fed Starving
Active Member
There's a rave somewhere in the woods where the trees don't grow. A meadow. The neon moon shares the ethereal glow of a trillion long hearts in dimmed pastel, a sack of tears soak through the spongy luna. And the graveyard below, doused with the slow numb sauna of empty light.
Down the tiles they place and fit them, interlock them together, clean them off and wax them. Endless this seems and the tiles stretch on across the meadow and keep the makers bent and brooding in wait, minding their time while they build. They continue as the stage is screwed up, under the spin of drills, provided to distinguish, dancer and musician.
When the speakers start to thump and the ravers are raving, that old moon gives them smiles, alive inside the rhythms of techno trance. They continue to dance. And they keep searching with their souls.
Mary came dancing with her own active heat. In this world, on a meadow tile, the psychology of a graveyard in the distance, too dead to slow her down. New friends on the way they didn't say, nor did they care. Would she meet them? How would she know, if they were meant for her.
Some brought a gimmick, others brought sparkle, navigating the maze of souls. Uncontained and on the tiles, in their own shows, feeling the sound, meandering through and off and beyond, somewhere somehow they can get into the dance. If they don't know what they should be, they know where they are, and that's good enough as they say.
Mary was her own maze while her boyfriend tried to find her while she was already in his arms. The pulse united them and they got along fine, even if he didn't truly know where she really was.
While the crowd glowed back the moon looked on knowing they wouldn't win. That wasn't the reason they were there. They came for the company, in silence, but they didn't say so. The clever riddle about that is the moon wasn't dry enough.
Eventually the tiles had to go, each tile would pick up dirt. They took a micron off the meadow worth, if you spread the dirt around. No marks were left and they took their trash with them to reduce the environmental danger. The only thing left was the memory of a dance near a graveyard, the one they'd all see later.
Down the tiles they place and fit them, interlock them together, clean them off and wax them. Endless this seems and the tiles stretch on across the meadow and keep the makers bent and brooding in wait, minding their time while they build. They continue as the stage is screwed up, under the spin of drills, provided to distinguish, dancer and musician.
When the speakers start to thump and the ravers are raving, that old moon gives them smiles, alive inside the rhythms of techno trance. They continue to dance. And they keep searching with their souls.
Mary came dancing with her own active heat. In this world, on a meadow tile, the psychology of a graveyard in the distance, too dead to slow her down. New friends on the way they didn't say, nor did they care. Would she meet them? How would she know, if they were meant for her.
Some brought a gimmick, others brought sparkle, navigating the maze of souls. Uncontained and on the tiles, in their own shows, feeling the sound, meandering through and off and beyond, somewhere somehow they can get into the dance. If they don't know what they should be, they know where they are, and that's good enough as they say.
Mary was her own maze while her boyfriend tried to find her while she was already in his arms. The pulse united them and they got along fine, even if he didn't truly know where she really was.
While the crowd glowed back the moon looked on knowing they wouldn't win. That wasn't the reason they were there. They came for the company, in silence, but they didn't say so. The clever riddle about that is the moon wasn't dry enough.
Eventually the tiles had to go, each tile would pick up dirt. They took a micron off the meadow worth, if you spread the dirt around. No marks were left and they took their trash with them to reduce the environmental danger. The only thing left was the memory of a dance near a graveyard, the one they'd all see later.
