people are strange, when you're a stranger

we creatures of the night (an assemblage of dark watery shadows streaming quickly down the beaten sidewalks) rush silently past others' defiantly public altercations, their scattered words hurled abrasively and throatily into the yielding, static night. disjointed and sharp they snag our open ears and capitulate us into a strange workshoprealm, where we attempt to sort the fragments and piece them together into a patchwork whole. but there are holes everywhere and context was lost from the beginning. where did the few words that reached our ears lie in the trajectory of the conversation, of the larger issue? we'll never know, so we gather what we can and devise our own uses for it. we twist and pinch the words into new shapes, throwing bits of ourselves into the mix, spinning new meaning. it's a reckless perversion, a twisted, indulgent vice. we are all leeches-

(two girls on the brink of physical violence, the air space between them threatening to collapse at any moment)

girl one to girl two: "no way, he's MY panda!"




dryad