The whole warehouse is a single heartbeat, and every one of them is inside it.
I remember waiting in that line, coat thin, breath fogging, furious at the cold, furious at the wait, checking a phone. Now I would give anything to be cold again. To have knees that complain. To be bored enough to check the time.
They do not check the time in here. That is the miracle nobody notices. Four hours have folded into one and no one is counting, no one is anywhere else, no one is thinking about Monday. A girl throws her head back with her eyes closed and her whole face is just glad. A boy hands his water bottle to a stranger and the stranger drinks and hands it back, and neither of them knows they have done something holy.
The bass I cannot feel. That is the one that gets me. It comes up through the concrete into the soles of their feet, into the ribs, into the back of the teeth, a sound so low it is really a touch, and they wear it without knowing they are being held. I press against the speaker stack the way you'd press against a radiator. Nothing. But I remember the shape of it.
Two of them are dancing close, sweat on the back of a neck, a hand at a waist, the small damp warmth of another living body in the dark. They will forget this by Wednesday. They will complain the room was too hot.
Stay a little longer. Let your feet hurt.
Let the sweat cool on you in the ugly morning light outside, and be annoyed by it, and be alive.