What are you doing here? And still the music. The music which is never anything like still. The power of the rhythm. He looks out over the crowd and realizes in a frozen instant that everything is as he has thought, as he has written. Short stories pass by him at regular intervals, he recites the titles, some of the more memorable lines. Words pattern out in all directions. And he is still. Fatalism boots the program. He looks out into the irish eyes that look back in the repetition of another story, another novel, another plot. The reflection is still. The looking develops into a gaze, a glare.
Beneath the lights and through the music stillness reigns along the dotted line. The maze of eyes, other eyes, motion around the room with such irregularity that his head turns this way, that way, never really turning perceptively beyond the quick cut of directional comportment. He awaits the inevitable, not really awake, not really caring, unsure as to whether the inevitable has ever come before or not. He hears the first noticeable sound of thunder intruding from beyond the maximum-induced soundtrack. Heavy rainfall reaches down and covers him with continuous fire. The firing rain.
A thin graph line, dotted, stretches out to each and every body, each and every sagging body spreading throughout the whole locale. A tangible tangent that you can almost feel, almost see, certainly sense. Stretch out your eyes and touch. Feel enwebbed. Sometimes it doesn't matter what you say. The words, broken down, continue to fly out, fly off the handle, whirling blades which strike hard or miss by milliseconds a lucky change there, eh? No more. The play grinds to a halt, the swollen female voices overload my aural receptivity reception system, my speakers foreclosed. Lines burn electric into metal sheet skins of different conductivity.
It's still all in the eyes. The south african propelled her darkened complexion closer to me than the black panties, black bra and black stockings, my eyes within the lightness of kissed breasts, my nose rubbing her anal cleavage, her vagina in extreme close-up on the split screen. Forwards on my lap, playing with her breasts; backwards on my lap, playing with her breasts.