And it feels almost like a subterranean highlight

And it feels almost like a subterranean highlight, grimy gret toothed old patchy walls all concrete and haunted and no wonder if whatever band backstage, the singer thereof, or more likely geetar player, finds himself most lonely at that point, knuckles cold and fingers raspy and ready just prior to onstage. Haunted is the true name of this stage, this gloom onstage illuminated only by these spectral lights that loom large upfront to fright the eager night. A little doomy club or, nameless word, venue, ripped-off and secret walls, needless hangings, doesn't matter, terrible topfront lights, perhaps seedy memories of sweat dripped on the caverny floor. Echoing loves of spirit up from the lusty ground.
Here is the heart of secretiveness in the heart of that anguished sound, guitar riff, combined with the blind hysteric numb of the dark and the throb thru the feet of the waiting patrons healthy to be crushed, in their hearts a tremulous, approaching love, awed under artifices of star, all the more awed for the artifice, all the more ready for joy, death to leak out in the sparkling night 'r under the subterfuge drink of sweat and fights that turn and twist in the moulting pit, perhaps some shirtless white trash saint, like a ghost, 'll stagedive or splitting thirsty for angst and sweat, make supplications on the creaking floor. The girls down there all clothed and gloomy'll surge scattered and treading with the upsurge of the crowd, hearts awakening, moving onwards, nonplussed in the momentous void. Hear that just then that cry, that rasp of sigh, that delicious escape of shriek that held a dark unlawful promise of condensation and glorious sin among an animal limb?Collectively drawn like grimoire puppets, delicately driven under an awful wing, of music slowly becoming death.