for twenty minutes they desparately tried to convince us they could feel.
feel away.

they mimicked what they saw from the outside of glass windows,
looking in towards the people who danced and laughed and cried.
they dansed,they laffed, they cryde. we were given the chance to listen to
ourselves breathe and cough in self conscious discomfort. to make noise, to be
imperfect, to sit and watch them in their synchronized and flawless movements.
it was their perfection that unmasked the charade.
it was our shameful mistakes they desparately longed for.
we watched and stared as we continued to glance over our shoulders...
listening for something in the footsteps of the machine.