Hundreds - sweating in motion - cycle on and off the slatted dance floor… bare feet pounding a heart-beat-drum to new-age/glitch DJs.

Broad Waltz strokes turning to heated Blues intimacy, then back.

Friends play a game of tricking themselves into dancing with “him” or “her”

When I’m tired, I crash on the huge pillows that fill the stand surrounding the Floor. Art pad out, I pull random tools from my pencil sleeve. At first I try to depict Sadie sitting next to me, but it ends up looking malformed and clownish. Suddenly shy, I pretend I don’t want to dance for a bit. “…shitty song, kinda tired…”

I flip through to a clean page and scratch angry dashes here and there, mapping an anonymous face into the ruddy cream. Nothing is direct. I stab the paper, forcing whatever might appear to be unintentional. I decide not to care, bobbing to the music, surreptitiously keeping an eye on the “her” I can’t quite get myself to dance with.