A below ground corridor,
impeded by a foot here and there.

Gut of a generator, stoical
and laborious.

Mouths pop whispers of mortality, 

these slumping mechanics of 
machine-driven menses.

Disparate energy flourishes,
as they decumbently throb.

Strobe pulses tangle and 
fuzzily brush complexions.

They've painted themselves
with color codes,

muttering tangled phrase appendages,
as an indri indri walks back and forth, bored.

The women come below to try their
hand at reconstructing the generator,
as an indri indri walks back and forth, uninterested.