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It's 5am. There are some bloop bleeps comin out of the speaker, the DJ's slowing it, makin us wait... everyone puts their hands up... bam, there it goes again. Everybody's dancing. I'm enjoying watching a super-dorky guy pull some robot moves; I'm laughing. Some chicken-legged chick in front of me is dancing in shorts, a bra, mid-calf socks, and sneakers, but I don't even care anymore. Suddenly a cloud of smoke surrounds me... the cannons go off and it's cold, so cold. Each person is isolated by the smoke; if you look around, it seems like each person has their own place in the smoke, a pocket for them. You are alone on the dancefloor. Out of the corner of my eye I see Jay starting a light show, flipping one red light and one white, throwing them, catching, to the tempo of the music.
It's a Danny "Fucking" Howells night.
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