You see rotting meat. The tiny white warms crawl upon it like little angels of death that execute their judgement in slow torment. For you, they are dancers. They must be, because you are one of them. And you know it.
Earth is the meat.
You dance to the blinking fluorescent lights that seem to transform the walls into living, twitching monsters. You dance without sound or motion or adrenaline, but you dance. You are dancing because that passing moment was a moment of non-thought in a place where every thought kills a little happiness. You look up. Between two grey skyscrapers you see a strip of sky.