There’s the girl, across the club, who works at a drug store. She’s a pharmacist and does overtime, she’s there nearly 70 hours a week. If you ask her how she is, normally she’ll barely answer you. She’d just nod, and stare off into the distance. If you’re lucky you might get a mumbled reply in cliché form.
“How are you.” A question to answer a question. Somehow though, she’s forgotten herself, and now communicates vividly using soaring hand motions, with the trails from strobing lights throwing in conjecture and highlighting main themes. She’s cutting off to tangents concerning space and stars, exploring the nature of vitality with the enthusiasm of an afterburner. Her perfect, symmetrical oscillations draw a crowd, and with preacher-like influence she speaks to them in quick dips and spins. She’s gone off on a wild rambling rant. And who be any of us to stop her?