She feels herself collapsing slowly in a painful demise. The salt breeze caresses her skin and the ripples of her dress flutter gently as her sinuous movements make her one with the other bodies. The pulsating motion is exhausting, the weight of the crowd bears down on the shore like a contagious wave of grounding sorrow making the ground sink.
The glow sticks attached to her wrist are like handcuffs binding her to her surroundings. In a few hours they will be spent. The glow from the rave leaks like radiation from the mass of bodies. The natural movements of the soul obey laws analogous to those of physical gravity. Grace is the only exception. Grace fills empty spaces, but it can only enter where there is a void to receive it, and it is grace itself which supplies this void.