phreelancefoto

And the beat goes on . . .the tempo slows and hastens its pace as feet shuffle in time on the dance floor. There is a certain futility to all the dancing to the music. I watch them as they strain to keep the beat when there is no beat to meet. Struggle as they may, while tripping over their own toes the beads of sweat descend to the floor where they collect and smear across the wood panels. There is no one controlling the music as it changes tempo and the volume flails out of control. Step after step the dancers begin to look up to see the lights flashing and spinning overhead. Last Call is barely noticed as the bartenders voice already taxed by trying to converse in the room, tries to overcome the erratic bass. Heart rates climb as the chaotic sounds begin to clamor together into a pattern. What once was pure noise has faded into music. A beat appears and a rhythm soon follows. The dancers stop, now sufficiently confused by the stable tempo bombarding their senses. The specter of sobriety lies in the street outside. Houselights begin to glow and the mysterious faade of the room starts to fade. The colored lights spool to a stop as the dancers begin to disappear. Out front a ruckus grows and then fades like the night into dawn. Slowly the crowds disperse as if one by one they notice the sky turn grey. Looking in the light seems to leak from the cracks in the door spilling out into the day. It wont be long until dusk falls and the shadows begin to stretch across the ground. And as the sun disappears behind the horizon, a faint rhythm can be heard in the distance, calling to the primitive souls within the bodies that wander the street. And the beat goes on . . .