fragments

disconnected, unfinished, unconnected pieces of writing. (they don't really mean much that way, do they?) the last one's totally ripped-off from something britt wrote, altho with my own spin. blargh.

. . . . .

it's one of those glazed days when you haven't gotten enough sleep, when the sun's just too hot, even if the air's cool. everything's all hard edges and fast, shiny cars, and there's a distance between my head and the world, like a pause before the answer to a question.

. . . . .

it's a thought: cloying, dangerous--like most thoughts.

. . . . . .

i feel neon pulsing beneath my skin. the music knocks me right out of my body, a physical wall of bass-beat breaking around me like the angry surf. i can no longer tell if i am breathing; my heart beat shifts to fit the music.

i slide along the walls, letting the energy fill me slowly, hungry tendrils of heat reaching out for me, wrapping around my wrists and ankles. someone on the other side of the room is controlling my breath, (if only i knew who,) someone in the midst of this feverish, whirling human vortex, someone i have to find because i can't breathe here, i can't breathe--

breathing comes with movement, like part of the dance, the rising and falling of my chest choreographed. the neon explodes through my veins. the air is hot, hot, heavy in my lungs, breathing in everyone else's breath. i'm seeking through the crowd