The function of your limbs are now to mob, dance, funk, fuck, and flick sweat. The choice has been made. Metal sheets, scratched by syncopated nails and hospital chimes, demand this of you. Scorched electronics, swelling like engorged veins, beg this of you. The person in the hawk mask, topped with nothing and bottomed with tear-away mesh pants, commands this of you. The Gameboy has been hacked. The screen is smashed from a forehead and some forceful contact. The squeals of Club(ed) Seal(s) feed(s) on this.
Can you raise your left arm anymore? If not, let the right do the dancing. Let the left hang and swing. Orange juice is cheaper than water here. Vitamins are good for you. The girl with the pupiless eyes keeps rolling around on the floor, and everyone side-steps her instantly and instinctively as if she’s an extension of themselves. Who’s to say she’s not?
She gets up suddenly, and you try to help her up, only to be slapped across the face. The rim of her palm cracks your jaw. You fall to the floor this time, hard. The time passes. The rotating lights catch your outline. People side-step you, instinctively and instantly, with their mouths open and limbs lost. This was requested of them.
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