The Grind of Bodies

That's what a pub dance floor usually is. A mill. Bodies colliding, crushing those poor little toes, that elbow in your back, unknown drink in your belly, and in SF pot fumes swirling around. And I love it. Which is crazy. But maybe with reason. Its probably the one place & time when I express myself uninhibitedly. Move in a way that makes sense to only me. Get rid of all that pent up energy from leading a non physical life ( I truly believe many city dwellers would happily go at it on a farm with shovels and etcetera just for the sake of it given half a chance - man has no idea what he has given up introducing machines for everything. But then again he created dance floors..). When I can stomp on toes with my heels and get away with a smile. No hard feelings. Good will and benevolence is abounding all around.
And then closing time comes around all too soon and you know your friends are going to get you home safe and all accounted for and that that key is waiting for you to get you inside and into a soundless sleep (stupor more like). To awake the next morning and wonder how many people had stomped on your sore sore toes or is it maybe the shoes...