You'll be at your desk, dying a little bit with every static muscle. Or your mind will be hovering around some little pocket of darkness or itching you about some dream you've got throwing stones at your windows.
You'll be drunk, talking about the kinds of things you buy or hold in your hand or that break or that you need to talk to a bank teller about, and you'll be dying a bit with the stasis of the conversation and your emotions, and you'll hear the music from next door and it will be impossible to think straight as long as you hear it and feel the resound in your feet of other people stomping over the floorboards.
You'll open that dark door and the wall of music will punch your neck and the soft skin above your hips and you'll actually feel the pulse of air that comes with the drumbeat and it will smell of sweat and booze and sex and you don't know how long you have to wait before you can walk across and start adding to that smell yourself.
And you'll hear that song and your heart will literally lift; you'll feel it push on your ribs, on your throat.
You won't care about how you look. Even a glimpse in a mirror in a club made only for fighting, fucking and fistpumping won't bother you. Hair plastered down. Your back a triangle of sweat. Moving in a reflection to whoever is closest to you. Or dropping into the sway of someone else's body.
And the day will break. And your calves will hurt like you've hiked a pilgrim's trail. And you'll realise that sweat is a rolling rivulet down the small of your back. And you know you'll do this for ever. Maybe you won't be able to stay up as late or move as loosely or drink as much or dance without drinking or do it alone or do it with so many friends you lose track of who is where and why but you'll know you'll still find a way to do it forever. Dropping it all and opening that door and dancing til you ache.
images: Patrick Zachmann (lord)