The heat hits me,
the air chokes me,
the light blinds me.

Bodies on bodies on bodies.

Gyration,
fixation,
emancipation,
from expectation.

From the everyday.

From thoughts of death and thoughts of life,
the one that was never promised to us.

The dancefloor is a pit of degeneracy and we are degenerates.

Eyes lock and are ripped apart again.

Unknown hands grab for unknown flesh.

Bodies lock and are ripped apart again.

We swallow multicoloured rocks that drag us down to the bottom of the ocean, only to rocket us back up into the blazing light that was at one time blinding but is now salvation.

Sin makes us holy.

We float.

But the thing is, irony has no place on the dance floor.

So the light gives us back to the earth and we dance again.

Blinded.