Perfection.

Perfect snapshot memory of standing at the edge of a long, narrow dancefloor. Having just walked in pretending to know where you’re going because you’re in a brand new city, in an obviously shit part of town. The maw is swarming with wide-leg pants in unison to some generic-sounding proggy trancy thing. Stairs on the far corner lift you with a matching rise in humidity. Thick, dusty air. A hidden, intimate room? As you crest the landing, the smaller, darker room is leaking a sharp, raw sound…

The kids are hemorrhaging joy in pairs. KInetic call and response. Fluid. Flowing. Two in the storm’s blown pupil of an eye, performing the frantic kabuki of water molecules absorbing the energy of a butane torch. It’s infectious. Back then, tribal instinct immediately elbows its way in and doms any bottom-embracing sense of shyness and self-control. Stepping in to engage is easy. Reveling in the eye flash and lock of surprise at new movement, shifting to appreciation as rhythms merge and the battle begins.