there is a beep beep beeping.
(tick tock)
a noise, an awful awful noise.
(tick tock)
like the tick tick ticking of a clock
(like the tick tick ticking of a bomb and the—)
—the first string of the violin…
and so starts a dance in a grand ballroom.
victorian ladies in light, gay gowns, their dresses made of thin, floaty fabrics whose delicate hues are of salmons and sunflowers, pastel blues and apple greens. embroidered silks and sequins, ribbons and pearls, and flowers tucked behind one ear. adorned with white opera gloves and satin shoes, they are slender and sylph-like with clear skin and rich, brilliant eyes.
victorian gentlemen in their finest, most formal suits. sleek vests, dress-coats and well-fitted pants, new and glossy with fine and delicately plaited shirt-fronts, decorated only with small golden studs. their peaked lapels and white neckties; in their patent leather boots and white linen handkerchiefs, they are tall and handsome devils with pleasing faces and polite eyes.
then a curtsy and a bow,
and the gentle touch of partners (a phantom touch prod prod prodding at the mind)
the sweeping of the gowns upon polished floorboards (spin spin spinning down a rabbit hole)
the vaulted ceilings peering down from high above (spy spy spying from a hole in the sky)
the pillars of gold and walls of marble (bend bend bending like they are making way for something—someone?—)
the chandeliers of gold hanging above like tiny little suns (warm warm warming with its artificial light)
the royal red drapery whose ends just barely hover above the floor (drip drip dripping down like blood)
the eyes up in the balconies, crinkled in laughter (mock mock mocking every step)
(watch watch watching like an audience waiting for the curtain to rise on a stage)
(one, two, three…)
… . . . . . . . . .
wake up.
. . . . .
wake up!
… . … … … …
not… now…
. … . . . … . … . .
the line of dance is a curious curious thing,
(one two three…)
where all the ladies and gentlemen move in tandem all at once,
(one two three…)
invisible footwork to all except the dancers themselves,
(one two three…)
step step stepping along imaginary marks,
(one two three…)
the rising and the fall fall falling,
(one two three…)
counter-clockwise, counter-clockwise
(tick tock)
hello?
(one two three…)
… . . . . . . . . .
you need to wake up.
. . . . .
you need to leave!
… . … … … …
…want… to stay…
. … . . . … . … . .
the melancholy decrescendo with its dull and dark timbres, low and soft;
yet the steps of those dancers are far heavier than before, quick and sharp,
(one two three)
(like the steps of march march marching)
those victorian ladies in gowns of scarlet inks, violet amethysts, and the deepest blacks of crow feathers,
(one two three)
those victorian gentlemen whose demeanors are now more devilish than polite,
(one two three)
and the faces of those dancers hidden behind glittering masquerade masks,
(one two three)
(and in his ears he hears a static.)
(tick tock)
… . . . . . . . . .
are you satisfied now?
. . . . .
…it’s time.
… . … … … …
…okay.
. … . . . … . … . .
(one)
my world…
(two)
my place…
(three—)
—and the last string of the violin.
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