He was like a slave to the lifestyle, stuck in a cage of indigo light. It made his eyes purple, glancing upwards through the human generated smoggy air to concentrate, perhaps? On the lyrics? On the music? Or to try and escape to the place where these words meant what they'd meant when he'd written them down. What was this mob, belching fermented by-products and bouncing with the awkward uncertainty of small children. Self-indulging hedonists, hiring a gig to serve as a small stepping stone in a list of things to do on a party night. The poor man had nowhere to go, crowded onto a stage platform by a throng of people who knew, "a few" songs.
He closed his eyes, he bobbed his head. He wasn't feeling it, it wasn't the kind of head bob you get from counting rhythm or loving your lady. It was mechanical, like the genetically programmed behavior of lizards when they feel their territory is cornered. Birds did it as well, though that was just genetic residue. And now he did it to, but they were still there, even closer now, he glanced quickly around, and then shot his eyes upwards, to the indigo. It wasn't enough now to close his eyes, block out vision, because he was still here, surrounded by people who wouldn't look him in the eyes if the light shined on them, but who stared constantly from the darkness.
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