Eight fifty seven in a cafe

I love that feeling of falling. Like coming off a high. A beautiful musical high. Drumming and strumming. Coffee grounds everywhere. Coffee grounds in your ears. I don't know what I am. I don't know if I'm the ground or the air or the pleather couch I have plumbed down on. I can't feel my hair. I can feel my blood becoming unified with the beat of the music. Thrum. Thrum. Thrum. Over and over. I feel addicted. I am addicted. That girl across the room with the mustached boy is talking too much. She is annoying. I don't know why. She just is. I feel the guitar solo becoming part of my brainwaves. My eyeballs dance and sway.