Hot

A low base bleeds out of the monitor, trickles out across the crowd. Eager am I for this baptism of soul, such complete envelopment.
The drums next, stomping their dull fury. The body-hollowing beats enter me entirely, and I live only as they allow. They are air of lung, growl of belly, beat of heart. Let them be merciful; if they stop, I die.
Scalded fingers over black frets dance. Ear tickled and excited, I am no longer my own. The music takes. Me.
The hot smell of human is everywhere, but we are far and beyond. Sweat runs down the many and one who are music, are me, are everything and nothing.

This is how I am not myself.

It's beautiful.