The children were fighting...well, actually, they would have been. I call them children because they were younger, but they were teens: testosterone-laden young men, unsure and unsettled. Under heat and pressure, such a concoction becomes volatile. Can a man be contained and not explode? Such expectations as these are stranger than fiction. Ample space is required to move and to breathe.
So the "boys" live in a town and they consume as they have all their lives. Eat food. Drink water. Hunger for knowledge, thirst for life. Suddenly, their bodies are changing. Their minds are changing, they are growing up and out of their skin. Word on the street is there are places to go, people to meet--chics--but for now they are temporarily detained. Angrily, maybe, one strikes a blow. Maybe two. A punch thrown here; there. Punches flying everywhere!...And then, suddenly--stopped!
This is maddening, they say. What a waste. This is hurting my hand, and your face isn't looking too good either. Your face actually sucks, and hey, I'm sorry about that, buddy. Here, borrow my guitar. No, better yet, keep it. I have two. Instead of punch-face, the man-boys decide to collect themselves a band. One guy doesn't have much talent for instrument, so he's the front man with a microphone, and they all decide to play together. Instruments are electrified. Bodies marry instrument, marry music and wage war on something other than faces and guts and groins. Angst travels as vibration and waves, pounding hearts not heads and grounding the source of anger into a pool of electricity at the souls of man-boy feet.
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