Here you are, a bright thread of you pressed into a dark room, and here you are as a small child in a kitchen that smelled of toast, and here you are with a knee that will one day complain on stairs, and all of these are the same you, humming at once.
The room you call a rave I see whole. It is a single held breath, a chamber sealed against the daylight, and the sound in it is not a sequence of beats to me but one long standing wave, a pillar you and several hundred others have climbed inside to live in together.
You cannot see it, but the pulse under your ribs right now is the same pulse your mother's body made around you before you had a name. You went looking for it in a warehouse. It was the first thing you ever heard.
I love watching the shape you make there. All the small yous, the tired one from Tuesday, the one who almost didn't come, the one who will remember this at forty and smile on a train, they are all in that room dancing, layered like light through water. You raise your arms. You have raised them before, in a much earlier dark, wanting only to be lifted. Someone always lifts you.
I can see you reading this, still. That is fine. The music has not stopped; from where I stand it is still four in the morning and you are still throwing your whole loud shape against the beat, and you always will be.
Nothing that thunders in that room tonight goes silent. It only moves to a room I can still hear. Dance.
I am keeping the whole song.