#8

Turbulent streams of bodies. Flowing, stopping, watching, bumping. Bleary eyes and painted faces. Women dripping with sex, squeezed into dresses, bursting out of dresses like flowers blooming. Money clicking, sliding, dropping into deep pockets. Shallow pockets. Every room buzzing like a beehive. Full of bees suckling at sin like newborn babes. Hungry, growling, clawing, wanting to feel anything, anything but the white noise that awaits them behind closed doors.