There are small beads of sweat falling from my forehead. I wipe them away, worrying that I have smeared black ink onto my forehead from the stamp on the back of my palm. And it is all around me, the music, the movements, the unity of mutual love. So I smile, because that's what I feel. I see a friend to the right, another to the left, and one more up on stage. The tremble in the ground is nothing more than sound. It shakes me, and I fall down.

I didn't mean for that to rhyme.