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The bone-throbbing echo of a memory - the close intimacy of jostling limbs, shadows and half-faces. This isn't a club for beautiful people, yet there are beautiful people inside. The girl...
Your body moves involuntarily, ambushed by syncopation, low frequency, the machine hiss of music taut against your throat, a grinding, industrial intake of breath. Enthralled to the rhythms, you are out of time, out of body, your mind pure sensation. Pressure waves of sound make their own shapes, their own spatial awareness, make your arms and legs move of their own accord, bypassing your consciousness. Slower, faster, louder, softer. Your head is full of echoes, flashes of light and static, glances and touches, the persistent drone of machine music. The bass thuds like a heartbeat.
