A Paragraph (for a trashy novel)

The persistent pulse of heavy house techno courses through a club, pounding on the insides of every partier, begging to be released. The DJ can't free the pent up pulse on his own: he knows that his job is not to provide the beat, but to read the pulse of the club--the dancers, the drinkers, the couples making out in the crowd, and the singles looking through the crowd to make anything out--and to amplify and intensify that pulse until it permeates the very people who produced it in the first place. The beat circulates. It flows and grows with an energy that drives everything harder and faster. This is the pulse of a city that never sleeps. It is the vibrant pulse of rebellion. The pulse of joy. Nevertheless, it is a pulse that cannot be broken or slowed without toxic effects. The pulse becomes an infinite loop that flows through every body until somebody can't take it anymore. Then, the pulse proves to be the purposeful tock of a time-bomb about to explode.

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Okay, you can make up the rest on your own. I was about to write about someone I met in a nightclub, but I felt like soing something creative instead. This exercise was a little different from writing a restaurant review, and hopefully more fun for those of you who aren't going too be eating in Beijing any time soon. It's also fun to write as if I'm having a conversation with an audience that I'm pretty sure doesn't exist. Anyway, as usual, I always would appreciate feedback on any of the writing I post here. Feel free to get in touch by any means (if you're real to begin with...).