And then the singers danced and the dancers sang, to them there was nothing but time and the music. To them there was no life, no death, no beginning, no end. Just the rythmn and the night. And all were happy, though a few knew why. And without the music there was nothing, they did not exist. There was no being, there was only nothingness. (repeat infinitely). And the happy departed and all that was left was the sadness. Swaying side to side, feeling and knowing that this was the end. This was the instantaneous movement that all had been awaiting. That all would partake but that none would survive. But some would try, not to escape the fleeting, but to hold fast to the feeling, the touch, the smell, the sound. The rush became too much to bear, and then it was gone, forever. The stillness took the place of the sound, the quiet too over the prophesy, to them it was the end, but the movement continued, and the rush became the touch, and the music became the solitude, the comfort, and the isolation of it all was the only thing remembered by the one.
