Suddenly, the pulse quickens as the tempo of the drums shifts into high gear. Cymbals crash arbitrarily, wave upon wave upon wave, metallic and unceasing. Two green and gold paper-mach heads fly upward with the flash of red, undulating bodies, glit ter fringes catching the sunlight, alien eyes batting wildly. No longer the audience, I become a part of the dance. Power washes over my limbs, filling me with the delusion of a strength that I know will vanish when I return to the reality of a cold, ap athetic city.
Sparks fly underfoot from red tethered packages exploding with pure energy.
I am each spark, unleashed from a stigma, light fantastic, free to burn if only for a moment before dispersing back into obscuri ty. A collection of souls rises to the heaves on the fragrant smoke of burned incense, mine among them. Dragons' feet, sheathed in white Nikes float above the pavement. The cymbals become silent as the monstrosities are appeased by luck red bags. The drums slow to their original proud thudding, the thudding of our pulses, the proof of a great power held in check by mortal flesh.