Dance with me?

The lights are out tonight, so we dance down the black street. No one knows why we dance or why so awkward our passion. Black trees reach for our guts with hooked fingers, and demons-once-pumpkins smile, sweet with decay. It is Halloween season, the season of dying. The street leads to the cemetery, a bordello for necrophiles, who beat each other with shovels over the fresh dirt, determining a very sick alpha male. The dead no longer dance, as far as we know. If they do, it's the horizontal mambo.

Humans. Gross, nasty humans. We are always dancing: even asleep we dance. The beauty of the dance is that it ends, and what lies beyond the cemetery is the name of the song that we dance to, the ultimate musical fusion.