In a cold atmosphere the singer writes his words down solid. Composed in a hot room it becomes a fuel for chaos. Looking up at the multicolored lights I am chloroformed by a stranger I jump in a whirl of sweat and laughter. It becomes a united thrust. In a humid box of four dark walls, sound pounding, with no place to go but my ears. Loud noises move this body to a beat I am crushed in a sweet, smokey essence it becomes a night to remember. Outside the venue, a cold atmosphere. I take in crisp air as I am slightly deffoned. Composed like the words of the singer, I become fuel for a memory. It is then where I am connected to the voice. It is then when I become a string for the notes. It is then when I become a box. An atmosphere, humming along. The night is over. I will come back again.