my hands caused the next collapse , that stand of folding tables and plastic crates crumbling with barely a pushed finger , the loop still huzzing its fall inconsequential really , already setting in motion the actions that needed to be realized , to be seen , to be done and my gray nikes hitthe black floor , the path of bodies sliding and avoiding , no contact wanted no congratulations offered , looking back for only a minute , the eyes of court closed on the drumset , him busting into a complex and crazy drum solo , some type of jazz breakdown number from college or his last recital or the last time he was in his house , his eyes closed , like in meditation , a worship at the altar of the great music healer , we had all sinned and cursed the institutions , we would come back one day maybe though that was not in the next hour or maybe not in the next day , there just had to be -- -- moving towards the hall , and nathan stands next to a kid , a small handheld recorder playing noise and sounds that are familiar the bathroom the only logical and possible solace , on the stall was a sticker that said stupid shiny volvo owner and i punched the door it was open , the white porcelain lid now in my hands slamming it against marked up sheetrock , call this number now visible between one split a poorly drawn set of sharpie boobs under another split , these two engravings lasting longer than any silly , stupid , clever band , this club had seen its share of toilets shattered , musicians thinking they only had these problems , that no one else felt this way that we were all f****ing artists changing the world , but just providing more change in this nightlife hustle that we all took a part in , that we all agreed in , that we tried to imbue with local scene value , but its only left the crowbar with a broken toilet .