Body blurred into body, crowd into writhing mass, undulating to a beat knocking around a collective skull- everyone knew the same grinding heat, gnashing teeth and seeking limbs. He touched him or her or himself, and it didn't matter; he was caressing skin, sweaty and plentiful, yielding and marred in pulsing, vibrant color.
The lights flickered, the factory groaned; one hundred years ago, dirty children toiled beneath a monopoly, and dirty children came back to play, kissing and groping and taking familiar strangers. "I like your hair."
He had bleached it so it caught the black light, and he smiled, laid a hand over the one at his hip, and fell into the figure behind him. Lips on his neck, they swayed like the cadence of cacophonous poetry, individual oscillations in a endless song.
"I like your glitter." Masculine. Soft fingertips and breath like acid paper. He grinned and melded into ecstasy and never asked a name-
Who were they? Who cared.