09.20.02

no one knows...

The strobe light flashed black and white, splitting the room into two absolute dimensions each frozen without colour or shade. The glowsticks, shining green and blue-violet light, contained the only area free from its spell where time ran freely as it spun around the owner's hands which drew letters and patterns never to be matched into the air a little at a time. We were four trapped in this space and dancing, in ritual, to the music which traveled to us over the air from an old stereo playing Frank Sinatra in pure beats and rhythms. We would stop occasionally as the music did for a second, and continue . Hands flit across our felid of vision as ribbons and butterflies that amazed and delighted with their motions and grace, bits of the movements lost in darkness. Hair, with fans, would bloom large and black, striking like snakes in the air at our bodies as we writhed.

One was laying on the floor, in complete bliss.

The heat of the room served to tighten the planes and sharpen their dimensions. We ran chasing each other with balloons for rapiers and everlasting supplies of extra lives for this game. We charged shouting, "I am Inigo Montoya, you kill my father, prepare to die" and "There can only be one Highlander!" One would catapult herself over the castle wall to land comfortably on a disheveled bed, mussed from prior tries at storming it. Clothes flew through the air frighteningly heavy and bodies, lithe and glistening, were captured every second in the blinking. We collapsed onto each other from exhaustion and thirst, smiling and only wishing to do it again for all that hurting in our stomachs.

Then in the soft sand we stood watching as the currents raced and rushed over each other as in a game, creating crests that crashed down to spray mist into the air high above. They played like children restless waiting to burst from their bodies in joy. The tide kissed our toes gently from far, still feeling the droplets as they fell on our bodies. The moon presided over this December night proud and full of health and goodness. Tonight the rabbit was making motchi upside down. The white light caressed us and every curve of the sand, making it sparkle for us. It hit the water with so many jagged edges to make it solid and so dwarfing, welcoming, spritely. The energy was building again and bubbling up to spring, effervescent from out mouths as we howled to this night never to forget, rattling our chests with deep vibrations and hoping to run out of air in the process.

At home the blankets warm and white covered our bare bodies with soft touches of cotton and the milk, so white like our moon and motchi, soothed our restless energies. Sugary cake only served to quiet us to a stupor on the couches, draped over one another. We were pillows, and soft ones at that. The dryer shrunk our clothes that night. It didn't matter.

shi-ou-sama at 7:17 p.m.

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