Night is languishing in a chain of events that ensue to light the floor with dance steps. The loved are the toast to the steps mimicking Michael Jackson. The night club is aghast with the virtue of a saint who danced while he sermoned in the outskirts of Paris. He was a saint par excellence in the service of God. Anything that mattered to him was love of the common people and in the evening prior to the incident he drowned himself in the bottle of Bacardi and appeared at the night club where was the special night of Michael Jackson underway. A lady of Marlowe running the household in the prestigious district of Paris also showed up in the night club for she was a big time fan of Michael Jackson.
Thinking about Shakespeare, the students danced to the brimmed glasses of beer at the nightclub which was called Ritz. The saint appeared too, had couple of shots of beer and began his drunk sermon of Jesus the Christ. Was he somehow different from Micahel Jackson? asked a student ruddying his moustache as if he was the bravest son of soil. Soon there was comparison of Michael Jackson with Christ and the lady was ecstatic with the comparison of the singer to the effete Christ as she would picture him to be a worn out soiling from the pedestal of evil and in search of salvation for the soul.
All lingered on, there was a song of Rasputin from erstwhile ABBA as the students littered the night club with newspaper captions being thrown cut away around. I need the meaning, the meaning to salvage myself from the inherent evil the state sometimes make a proportion of life. I must dance to relieve myself off bondage to human servile behaviour in an effort to fill my tummy with some food. I am the divine dancer at night club.