Dream.
"Line up." Dancers in Que lacking costumes, they skip with matching feet amongst discarded lines. No longer in studio, they enter the materialistic world without recognition. Feet flexed, spinning back and forth between isles, separated by stacked metal. Familiar faces at each end, unfamiliar in their unexplained reasoning.
The rhythm is gone, they feel no need to dance. The three growing down in their child like state, they think no one is watching. The man in the black suit paces down their path as the laughter they mock echo's through the sound of the piano keys they're pushing. Each movement frosted in the slow glowing dust falling, coating their innocence in dark ash.
Taped feet skip softly against the mattress of a floor. Each jump failed in its soft landing. The instructor leans forward over them, now all huddled together taking in the lecture with no real care. Surrounded my advertisements, not realizing the depth behind each sign, the one in white leans forward examining the un appreciated literature, under priced in its lack of interest. Her pale fingers trace the spine of a hard covered book, suede at each corner.
Dust still freezing the scene, slowly she takes the heavy book in her two hands. flipping through the introductory pages, she feels nothing. Her finger feels a gash, and a drop of blood rolls down the page in mid turn to find familiar faces in the pages of this book. Confused, the young looks for comfort in explaining this to the dancer in blue, who does not play in, for the images of the familiar fade into non existence at this time. No where to be found, no where to be seen in the bindings of the novel.
Instead, the pages of which the faces once were, corpses. Mutilated bodies thrown lifelessly a crossed page after page.
The pages continue turning, each flip bringing a new set of faces, not new within the dancer in whites mind. A mother, A father, depicted in dark imagery inside the pages of an unfamiliar book. The confused looks for comfort in explaining this to the instructor in black, who does not play in.
The rhythm is gone, they feel no need to dance. The three growing down in their child like state, they think no one is watching. The man in the black suit paces down their path as the laughter they mock echo's through the sound of the piano keys they're pushing. Each movement frosted in the slow glowing dust falling, coating their innocence in dark ash.
Taped feet skip softly against the mattress of a floor. Each jump failed in its soft landing. The instructor leans forward over them, now all huddled together taking in the lecture with no real care. Surrounded my advertisements, not realizing the depth behind each sign, the one in white leans forward examining the un appreciated literature, under priced in its lack of interest. Her pale fingers trace the spine of a hard covered book, suede at each corner.
Dust still freezing the scene, slowly she takes the heavy book in her two hands. flipping through the introductory pages, she feels nothing. Her finger feels a gash, and a drop of blood rolls down the page in mid turn to find familiar faces in the pages of this book. Confused, the young looks for comfort in explaining this to the dancer in blue, who does not play in, for the images of the familiar fade into non existence at this time. No where to be found, no where to be seen in the bindings of the novel.
Instead, the pages of which the faces once were, corpses. Mutilated bodies thrown lifelessly a crossed page after page.
The pages continue turning, each flip bringing a new set of faces, not new within the dancer in whites mind. A mother, A father, depicted in dark imagery inside the pages of an unfamiliar book. The confused looks for comfort in explaining this to the instructor in black, who does not play in.