babeyoucanbetonit

My feet are cold and wet inside my shoes, which tap at the floor in exact accordance with the beat. The beat is slow, measured, and everything surrounding me whirs around that same pulse. A girl beside me taps at her computer; it is part of the larger melody, also made up of the clink of machinery and spurts of hot liquid into styrofoam cups, and completed by sounds of laughter and groans of frustration that align perfectly alongside. This music is horrifically mundane, but it nevertheless does its job. I float. I have no color or substance; I am part of the music, a single pizzicato note among the flurry of frenzied movement. Dimly, my body