The Interest of All, Needs at a Heart, Pillows, Fingers, Outrage!

Some semi-fragile thing, peering out across the moops. I was doing my best in my best suit, covered mostly, but sick-feeling. The scene converged and I fell into another bosom. I beg your!— something like that. Hell, maybe it was Yours. But my tongue don't go backwards too well, seems almost designed that way, and she near lost her lung in bloody murder. In need of a pick-up, I muscled the former (self-appointed) DJ off the decks and slipped a disc of my own bringing. Somewhere amidst the phlegm and cheer a heart could be heard, and it spoke to me.

Perhaps partially alcohol, but the face upstairs is friendlier, homelier than you'd expect. And familiar like a stranger in a dream is. You don't expect to find it face-down, or in this state of bludgeon, yet I'm certain my eyes were correct. Light was overwhelming, backdrops were standard, everything had a dullness of purpose— I could barely hold on to being there and it didn't last. Its voice initially brought to mind lacking villains on science fiction television, artificial sonority and all, but a more palatable croon developed for the closer. I was compelled.

Further on, stumbling through the embers of the occasion, I found myself beside the wrong arm of the couch, with the hosts on the other, suddenly very interested in their watches. No music, less food. I mean to say, I'm not entirely blind to outstaying my welcome. I had a thought for them. I kissed, I danced and all was forgiven.