6. Faint inaudible sounds, words impossible to sharpen, the Kabuki was over. It was a last performance, Mitsuo's final 'wood cutting', an image that was already dead pre state of decay and so was he.

5. A DJ army broke ranks, adavanced MASH and Class A DAC system 4 layer coils and hyper Neo Olefin drivers commenced its sound. Enveloped for a second, passing a musical prelude above the horizontal apex of the speakers. Dust exploded, floating in the resonance of high harmonics. Explosions of noise followed, deafening anyone in a threatened earshot. The room bloomed into life with wholesome boys and girls filling the empty squares on the dance floor, following set moves particular to individual taste. The names, shapes of people he knew were absorbed into a huge seething mass contained in the border of the dance floor. Flickering lights, the pulse of the bass obsession from the DJ was too much for one person, held in the heart of the mosh pit. Nauseated by her company she swayed and fell into the space of the bodies opened during her fall. There was a pause and the digital display held on pause at 3.57 ms. The silence and gathering sympathy provided an appropriate jail break for Mitsuo. One breath long enough for the hairs on the audiences necks to relax, it was long enough for Mitsuo's foot to be already leading the way out in evasion, he heard the cries then though it didn't effect him, 'the sirens groin kick' empathy had become dissolved in his mind, a decomposing relic of a woman who Mitsuo thought would build his fantasy in transparent walls.

2. I'm smothered to death by this field of people". Automatic announcement proceeded the opening of his gift once it was approved, Mitsuo Ishidu took his place in a stance ready to receive acknowledgement from the birthday girl. He didn't feel her greeting, perhaps he was numb, protected in a way from the way she tasted and touched, her emergence was so sudden she could of been a mile away instead of one meter, seperated in a mist of cigarette smoke and perfumed whispers. The simple cough of her motion jerked Mitsuo back from his thoughts in time to catch a female figure slide into place close in front of him, gyrated hips, a finger on the lip of a champagne cocktail suggested foreplay, to Mikuto it was a cap of bullshit decorum. His girl was wasted.

"Careful it might go off."

"What!?" she asked over the noise.

"I said HI!"

"Ah ha, that's what I thought you said. So you made it. Ha ha listen to the real Kagura."

"It is your night then, since the Kagura is yours, you better give me something since I'm dying here" Ikuto whispered, loosing a bit of the hard R's in his accent. The two embraced in a second kiss, as they submerged in a sea of yells and cheers, Ikuto knew he didn't have long, even with the bubbles on his breath the facade of his true face was beginning to crack. Peeling away no amount of cheap pop music could rest his fear.

1. From the view of 3X3 eyes Sesshu Otomo and Mitsuo Ishidu, Misa Yukihime was a hidden fortress impenetrable from where he was, at that same time Mitsuo had to agree with the sentiment of Sesshu, his own eyes joining the vision, a presentation of sexual potential. "It had to be sabotage" Sesshu thought. Sniffing the air he leaned back on post with a smirk on his face, with the way he looked, the evastlain gel in hair, the blood sharpness of his black suit balanced by the contrast of his white shirt that poked out at the end of each arm like cartoon gloves, it was easy for him to be the center of attention, occasional flashes of his teeth lit up his existence as a disembodied smile. They had come to this event to assess potential relationships with some of the better provision of women, the talent was rare at best and not much could come close to the quality of Misa Yukihime. Sesshu, thinking he had a chance with her, was already in his trademark Zen Buddhist stance, standing like a giant erection, an illusion of the translation of magnitude. Mitsuo knew there was a buzz about Misa even though the social was more a ticked to an affluent lifestyle via cultural relocation in Sierra Vista, Nevada. Like Sesshu he had dreams too, only needing an excuse to succeed them, raised on fast food and large eyed anime, Misa could be the object to finally contend the western argument. He shook his head taking notes from Sesshu, somebody was talking about the significance of Quentin Tarantino movies. Mitsuo, embarassed, his a copy of the ghost in the shell, leaving Masamune Shirow, he entered the fake 1995 double talk. Sesshu plucked a tooth pick from his mouth and spoke aloud this time. "Sabotage."

3. Misa had followed uniformly the rules of conversation, it was all subconscious of course, a code that left Mitsuo dancing with a ghost. He was holding a charade together in impossible circumstances, Misa was the star of the party, her first real American induction integration to an alien society, a foothold for her future, her Emaki was almost being rolled out for her that night, a detailed picture for a neo Misa Yukihime.

"I don't think they care what the fuck we do out here."

"You're the princess here tonight I guess."

"Everyones watching us, I think I'm Dhrink."

"Don't worry I'll hold you up um...Princess."

Somebody poured alcohol on a balloon, blowing it up. "I think they miss you."

"The drink?"

"Over there, the ah um, what's the word, friend..s"

Misa began to drift off towards an open bottle of Kahlua.

Space passed between them, they were naked from the contact, at the break in wince he remember a thousand instances of the same.

"Are you really committed to the party thing?" Sesshu had said four years ago.

Misa tolerated being seperated, to be included in a drinking game based on the different coloured balloons hung on the ceiling, before the first case of wine had opened her closest friends had told her to act nervous, to act shy. That act hit the fan after the first bottle regulating the alcohol with ice water between glasses, that failed when Curaco was substituted, she was by herself with a head down the toilet. Mitsuo was next door in opposite facilities, keeping his blood alcohol in the toilet bowl and his dinner down.

3.9 - Mitsuo didn't pretend not to hear the chic peas hitting the enamel.

4. Track 0.357 Total Play 62:30 m.s. Misa had dosed herself in obsession, it went with her like a cloud, Mitsuo had picked up on her disguise and refrained from following. She had on most of the gifts given to her that could be worn: an oversized designer hat hid her features in a shadowed hood, she slinked around, a shiny new born black leather coat absorbed the rest of Misa's features in a sheepish wet shine.

Left to his own inventions and unusual silence around the dance floor, Mitsuo hovered around the room motivated by a strange eerie silence.

The timer sat on Track 7 Total Play 62:30

He couldn't even speak to Misa, at the moment she was busy cleansing her breath with a supply of mints while playing with a hand held electronic pet Pikachu, she was too ashamed to talk, at that moment it was his job to wait on her and commend all her mistakes, this occasion he thought impossible, when he felt as the freak of the night, backing away venting his Kabuki on others neaby was the last effect he would perform.

"This might be a comfortable time for you all to listen to the romantic folklore that gooey magnetic influence emanated when particular music plays because that last thing I want to do is be the boyfriend right now."

Mitsuo had bumped in to 25% of the populace, a small group of girls, they formed a small line intermediate between the bar and dance floor, the firing line. Unable to chose to jump backward or forward they just laughed at him as he had so violent spat out sentiment in Japanese, Mitsuo quickly added other suggestions and proposals to them, heavily slanged in English.

Prancing around in a surrealistic haze only confused his fucked up situation, changing a simple situation in from the neurotic to some glorified psychotic play. A tragedy in the making with him as the face painted hero.

The screen in Misa's tamogotchi made a series of sour notes as her pickahu died. She angrily tossed it against a wall and hurried off to the direction of the dance floor. Maybe he had it all backwards, he could hear the digital beeps coming from her eletronic pet. Mitsuo took a positive coiling, his Emaki a smile painting his face. Hesitation was unresponsive.