Guards stood tall in part over parcels. Now they tell me to take off my belt. Your belt. 
 
My impression is each motion serves a purpose. A higher light according to utopians hoisted in the sky headed toward realpolitik under their own glare. Guards collapsing into supernumerary states of hemi-fusion, 2 or more. Small adjustments in scales opposite a line-up of our unnumbered bodies. (2 or more.) Every dancer stops for a mote, a moment, feels better they tell me. 

Then we yield to the rush of new people stage center, taking on our subject matter w/ a backwash to clear few or no differences worth repeating.