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 into the sky headed toward realpolitik under their parents’ glare. Guards collapsing into supernumerary states of hemi-fusion, miniscule adjustments in scales opposite a line-up of our 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 firey purview to clear away no differences worth repeating.