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Down in the Dirt, v185
(the July 2021 Issue)



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mind distorter, egress, mover

S.M. Moore

Men and women stumble into the room,
like ants quickly shuffled by heightened endorphins, adrenaline and all else you may imagine.
They are bodies twitching and yearning for something they may find in that room.

They go in despondent and disheartened by the detritus they find on the floor,
and the solitude - it is the solitude, really.

But they exit lifted.

Back into the hallway they are cast,
passing along the same grime frustrating them before, but not now.
They do not see it now.
They flutter to the elevator,
and they strike the button and number,
and they excite easily having breathed life into the mechanisms and gears.
They wait.
The ding dings.
They exit, someone enters, they brush shoulders.

Back into the carouse,
with the music pounding like marching bands in the streets,
but it is not.
It is not marching bands; it is the howling of others who are easily excited as well.

There are lights of all colors, flickering.
They brush their nostrils,
and they blink their eyes,
and they consume.
The people invite them to move.
They move with the music.
Everyone moves.
Do not be still.
Stop standing.

Move.
Become fluid,
and then they grow tired,
and increasingly weary.
And then they exit.

Down the hall, to the elevator, back to the room.
They must stop paying attention to the detritus.
They must strike the button and wait.
The door opens again.
Someone exits, they enter, they brush shoulders.



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