It’s hard to see anything.
The music is clogging up my eyesight.
A person is on the left.
I think they are asleep,
Curled in a fetal position.
But I’m not sure.
The waxed-wooded floor is rocking a lot.
‘Cause there are so many bodies on it.
Someone turned on a strobe light.
It’s blinking, blinking, blinking: sliver and gold and white.
I am pretty sure that it’s reflecting off the brass of the curved horns,
But I could be lying.

 
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