“We're all the same. We're all ok.” The whispered voice is louder than the pounding drum and bass heartbeat. It might be the voice of a friend but it's the dj, soothing a warehouse full of equals, peers all bouncing to the same beat, the same unchanging chord, the same flashing lights, in the same perfect clothes, on the same drug, all the same, all ok. Even in the dark, even with the strobe lights and everyone moving, even deafened and dazzled by the sensory saturation, if you look down you can see over there in that open space, in a sea of black and white, a pair of red shoes. Red shoes, and people looking down to see what's the matter, then turning away embarassed. One guy, dancing all by himself to the same beat, on the same drug, in the same clothes, alone in red shoes. And then there are two other pairs of shoes, one on either side, one pair black and one white, not moving.     “Come outside with us.”     “We need to talk.”     “Let's go out this way.”     “Excuse us.” The sea of dancers flows into the vacant space and the lightness and oneness are restored without a trace. All the same. All ok.