The disco ball was turning. The lights were spinning, flashing, pulsing. The speakers were pumping noise into the atmosphere, waves of vibration that shook the air, slammed into the walls, broke back in upon each other, collided and crashed.
Outside in the street, I stood and gazed at the stars, what few of them I could see through the neon glare, the fluorescent pollution.
On one of those faint white specks in the inky, bleary sky, I was sure, another mind gazed back at me, and wondered, "Do they have problems like mine?"
What were their struggles? What did they pinch and scrape to acquire? Food on the table, and a table for their food? Clothes on their backs, and shoulders straight enough to hold them up? Roofs over their heads, and keeping their heads on their necks?
We must be so alike.