The living room was lively. The air, thick. You could feel it. You could taste it. It sensed you, too, with a warm welcome.
We had all done fantastic things. Impossible, we were told. Impossible until that very voice was hoarse & dry & cracked & could talk no more. We were tired of hearing it anyways.
But since that room was so alive, so filled with chatter, of stories yet untold, we danced. We danced to stories yet to unfold, yet to be sung.
And if you were watching, you'd have seen that curious girl sitting, staring madly at the fireplace as it danced anew, for she had just lobbed an inferno into the fire. Her friends glanced at eachother, wide-eyed, their cheeks bulging until they could withhold their explosive laughter no more.
Twelve feet higher. On the other side of the ceiling a girl, danced. She danced as the moonlight caressed her face, her flowing hair. She even glowed a little, her eyes radiant. Her friend was there. That mysterious hood swayed as he swung her arm overhead in swing, perfect with the beat only they could hear. They were victorious. They had witnessed. The world was so busy trying to change them – to twist them, to bind them – that they had changed the world. Then they sat, in unison. They sat on top of the world with their legs hanging free. They watched the stars – skin not touching, just sweatshirts brushing – as the moon turned harvest.