You don't lose yourself, but you dance anyway, surrounded by the pretty children in black with their shredded skirts and their fishnet that blends with your fishnet-- you dance, and you drink, and you call up the dark gods from beneath the floor and the light-bearing gods from on high, you offer your own body to the gods in the way that they used to, in the high and far off times. You wear black, shreds of black netcaireing and black silk, black lace and black boots, and you dance.

You dance, you play foil to the other dancers, you worship them with your bowing and you leap at them and you spin around them, you are all a part of a private show, one for yourself and your god, one for the room, one for each other. One one one. Count them like ribbons. Dream a little dream of me.

And then you fall hard on the sidelines in the worn velvet chairs with the beats throbbing in your ear and talk to the lean taurus boy tatooed like a trill and you take his number, though you'll never call him because you thought he was a gay boy and he's not, so he is immediately less interesting. Even if the trill spots are the coolest thing ever and re refers to people in terms like, "Oh, she has a negative three in that stat and rolls like, a d2 for damage. Flip a coin, really!"

Even so. You watch the beautiful women in their black skirts and leather corsets and industrial makeup and anime hair, you watch them making their own worship, losing themselves in sweat the music and the ice and achohol seeping into nothingness and the drink in your hand, and you don't dare think, because really it's all rediculous, rediculous-- and unbearably beautiful. We dance like a pavane, like a moresca. We dance honours, and we dance to forget. We dance till the beams crack down from the rooftops, we dance up the devils and down the black gods. We dance for all the dead who cannot dance. We make offering.

And we let them laugh at us, we let them whistle and clap, and we care not.

For we
have
danced.

And that, at the heart of it, at the core of it-- that is what matters.

<<agé chose>>

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