Throw your hands in the Ayerr.

Oh, hot dayumm, this is my jammm, keep me partying `til the A.M., ya'll don't understand, make me throw my hands in the ayer, ay-ayer, ayer, ay-ayer.

She walks enthusiastically towards the dancefloor, her steps filled with rhythm. She takes a look around her, people moving in time with the beat, moving in time with each other. She is just one person in this massive, entangled sea of bodies.

The flow creeps into her feet first, they start tapping, her knees start bending, her hips start swaying, the rest of her quickly picks up as the amplifiers blast the music. The bodies around her encourage her movement, her hair flips in every direction, she runs her fingers through her locks, not to comb them out but to feel sexy. Her hands slide over her waist, she doesn't know anything but this, this little world on the dancefloor, where life's mission is just to dance, and have fun while doing so.

She moves around unknown faces, strangers that somehow seem so close, like they all share a single purpose. The beat is fast, her body is faster; It changes from shape to shape, slinking into different movements, the smile on her face is evident, a slight pout in her lips: to make her feel the power she possesses in her body movement, to give her attitude a shape.

This is her moment. This is the only time she can actually let go. The monotonous chore of everyday life doesn't allow her to move wildly, to be free. This is the only time she doesn't have to care about her image to others because nobody here cares. They're all too busy with their own movements.


This is her now and hell, she might as well make the most of it.