White walls. White, infinite walls.
Boom.
Red.
Every time I try writing about this, you appear right next to me and won’t let me. Your eyes won’t let me. See, it’s pointless in a way. I’m not good enough to describe whatever it was that happened to you. But, boy, it sure is fun to try.
…

The stairs to the upper level seemed endless. You move to your own rhythm, unbothered by the outside perception. You dance to your own tune, finally free to sing what you’ve always wanted to sing. I’ve never openly admitted this, but before I snapped out of whatever curse you had put on me, I really was going to fuck you. You were freaking begging me, and I, always the gentlemen, was only happy to oblige. Maybe you weren’t the only one with the fucked up mind.

White Walls.

For a couple of minutes, you really did had me. But you took too long, the effects of your venom faded into the skies, and common sense took over from there.
You kept on dancing anyway. You kept on singing. It was a hot day, so you decided to continue the show topless, an action that drew a mixed reaction from the audience. By that point, help was on the way.

I wrote this about five months ago. I had comopletely forgot this. I think I was supposed to continue it or something, but I don't remember much about it now.