Zoning out to the holy choir

The army of black and lanky boys choir was in the middle of belching out a holy and multi-layered melody when they first started to sway and grow fuzzy around their edges. I blinked, fighting against the voices echoing in my mind like water ripples lapping against the unnaturally flat confines of a tank.

Each boy’s black canvas was vertically split into two by a white metallic tie. Each boy became a sleek black pencil-case with a silver zip. Discordant swaying, each boy to their own rhythm and music, seemed a stark visual contrast to the seamless melting of their songs. Upon the varnished wooden stage, they looked like a shelf of metronomes on display, wound up to different tempos and the silver needles rocking themselves to sleep, ticking and swaying.

The voices faded abruptly and the conductor whipped around, arms raised to form a Y. In the sea of white ties, his brilliant scarlet one was vaguely symbolic. It almost seemed to denounce the only non-virgin in the band of chaste youths. I smirked, suddenly free from the sleepy numbness that had enveloped me.