The bombardment of senses was like the ecstasy of dance. A euphoric swirl, though not as mellow as on the lacquered floor. Your bow takes you all the way, down to the roadside. I curtsey to scoop you up, and we dance; feet bare, splitting, and smashing in rhythm against the dirt and other fallen coryphee couples. But no one can dance all their troubles away, and no one can outrun fate.
The screams caught up with us first; short-cut wails of ravers far behind, those in last place. Then came the tinged odor and tingling tongue of singed flesh and swan lake frailties. Charred, framed remains never reached our eyes; a stroke of luck, I suppose. It was the heat wave which overwhelmed our senses, melted our frantic dance of life.