Someone put her in my arms, still inebriated by Bud Powell's frenzied rhythm still raging across the dance floor. Dangling, head turned back towards me. A blissful face, satisfied but ready to explode once again in other wonderful musical orgasms. Laid down on me like Christ in the portrayals of the Pity, sweaty as a result of being killed but ready to resurrect in her golden eternity. I was feeling her dead weight about to lift itself up again from one moment to the next. I was inspecting her blank look and asking myself from which corner of the universe such a graceful substance could come out of. Fifty-eight kilograms of pure rebellious energy, her curves light and perfect like the rings of Saturn.

Marine opened her eyes and for a moment she seemed to recognize me through the stardust of that night. She found the strength to lift herself up and put her arms around my neck. We kissed passionately just as Thelonious Monk was entering the scene under the dim lights of the club. She tried to tell me something but the BeBop frenzy  had already taken off again and it was eating away at those few syllables mumbled in the cavernous darkness of the space between us. She let go and fell on my chest knowing she couldn't do anything about that raging force bound to tear the roof up.

Down there a pack of wild beards and jet black locks kept spinning and twirling. Their rebellious movements dared to challenge protectionism and the habits of the rhomboids, as we called them. A rhombus is none other than a square whose ends were stretched to give it an illusory open-mindedness. Pressed between two fingers, it goes back to being a simple boring square. Those dudes were rhomboids, iffy and pretentious. And they ran the show.

Translated from the original post in Italian.