The smoke has a flavor. The fake smoke. From the smoke machines. Mirror paneled ceiling. Nearly everyone wearing black, clothing and makeup. Giant, spiked hair silhouetted against the smoke. Spastically strobing light. The lasers strike fast-moving, multicolored webs around us. The DJ wears black Ray-Bans and looks bored. Not a uniform, but uniformity, all around. Cities In Dust. Boundaries shared, acknowledged, and accepted. Black painted fingernails, too. Extremely pointed shoes. In the smoke-fogged room we dance. Say It Again. In addition to the faint smell of clove, marijuana. Time Bomb. The fake smoke is coconut. The hardwood floor gives under our collective weight. If it were silent, I'm guessing it would groan. The Dominatrix Sleeps Tonight. No such thing as too many black rubber bracelets. Go! Skull buckle Creepers. Custom pegged black pants with snaps. Chinese slippers. Fans and hats. Closed eyes and weaving gestures. Tongues penetrating and groping hands. Lined eyes roll back. Along the dark edges Kohl black.