Club Monozac

"A life worth living," is what she called it. A life of vintage dresses, sunday morning eucharists, and idealistic revolutions inside her mind. It was a life totally hers. One of integrity in a world vanity. It made sense to her, on those cozy nights after tea, or when she gazed upon the heavens and the spirit of clouds spoke to her in their ambiguous textures. But on top of the hill, she did not see the clouds or cozy nights, she only saw Club Monozac. It was a glowing little building down below, and it seemed to pulse with every throb of the bass and squeal of laughter. Inside the bodies swayed with the thickness of palm trees, and sweat dribbled sensually down dancing bodies and turned them into silk. Hunger danced savagely in their eyes, as they groped and thrust for anyone to make love with. It was a curious thing to her -- the way people lived almost oblivious to their own fragile existence. How their thoughts never left shallow waters and their daily activities strove to feed their most basic of senses. But here on the hill, it made perfect sense. She was twenty-eight, close the dreaded thirty. "A beautiful woman" she had been called, and she gracefully accepted this herself. But she was still single, and already her face began to crack and her assets were beginning to sag. Of what use was her beauty and youth? A life of integrity -- what was that? On the knoll of the hill Death came to visit her. Filled with envy for life, it brought her to her knees. In the deepest of struggles and the complexity of existence, the most simple and primal urges can overtake us. She ran down the hill to Club Monozac and left Death and her hard-fought life on the hill. She was lost forever in that club -- or at least for many years. She joined a crowd of others who were fleeing the same thing. Wide-eyed youth running from a hollow black silence.