the room’s dimmed to a buzz, as the volume inches louder and louder she starts to rise from her seat.
the fake candles rise up into rings that fall down one by one around her. she’s stood up now and it’s not enough.
slowly, beat by beat, she climbs up onto the table.
eyes closed, she’s moving feet first, hips second and fingertips last, to each flicker of the beat.
bar plants have risen around her in a Parisian splendour.
the english rain falls outside the dimly lit room. yellow light all around her.
she’s no longer thinking.
she only sees the music.
arms above her head lost in a song sung in a different language
tonal voices clashing together… perdus perdus.
if she listens hard enough, the familiar blackness dims and ebbs away. if she keeps writing, how long till the ink runs out?
how much can she dream away?