standing on edge, little white dots of perspiration. like a visible spiderweb after a rainfall. the hair on his arms stand up. a definite articulated action.
one not made by him.
standing up like little soldiers aflicted with mob mentality. sensing the mood that swallows the weak of will. or do the weak swallow it?
is this the reason he doesnt move? strength?
the little mutinous strands of hair on his arms. his legs. even the folicles on his neck. betray themselves when a cool gentle breeze blows through the wet sweat of action and tickles him.
and then the song changes.