At the show.

Without you, this discontent would be impossible.

Without you, I would not be able to indulge my paper-thin existance in pursuits above and beyond my lust. Without you, the tight frustration in the crushing crowd would swallow and smother all else and aye, but from the midst of your arms I am premitted to toss my head back, writhe, enjoy.

If I could do it myself, that would be something else, would it not?

Your body protects me from a different sort of hollowness. That one is familiar, this one is preferable and hard to define. The lights and music lift us all above ourselves, three feet forward in life and time, but I am steadily here. Here as the ache of my legs in the crowd and the blood in my ears from the sqeualing loud-speakers and the whine of guitars, of the bass and percussion. Lust is dim and far away as emotion. The rythyms are good and my throat is sore, I cannot holler like the rest of the fans, in my t-shirt from the opening band, which we anyway missed. I scrape my nails against your arms and feel you real, not suffused by me, for the very first time.

I think it was during 'Styrofoam plates' but I cannot be sure.

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