Guards stood tall. United in part over parcels. Now they tell you take off your belt.
The impression received is every motion serves a purpose. A higher purpose according to those hoisted in pectoral breeze. Purpose in a word is metonymic for revolting devastation, collapsing under our own glare into supernumerary states of moves, most like minor readjustments in politik on an intentional scale opposite the line-up of our voice forms. Every dancer stops mid-enchufla for a mote of a moment, and I feel better.

Then ballet natives yield to a rush of idols and new people center stage... all about the loot.