This is June Bug. She puts on lipstick in the rear view window of her car as she sits outside a club with thumping bass. Dark red looks like velvet. Tastes like plastic wax. 

June Bug looks at groups of people frolic into the club. Stroll in seemingly casually. And she feels an affinity with them all — the excitement of a new place. The need to quell the nervous jitters. The darting eyes. The indecision. June Bug knows all this. She feels it all but she’s not a part of any group. 

She’s there alone. And it wouldn’t matter if her outfit attracted the most attention or the least. If she were done up or not. She is there alone. No group. No one she’s specifically meeting.

Unless you consider the music and maybe the closest thing to the music, The DJ. June Bug follows the music. Drifts her way through the crowd to the front of the stage so she can do what she was born to do.

Purple lights cross with lime green. Orange and blue sparkles collide spinning, surrounding her. Music knows how to move her body. She just lets go and follows through. It’s not hard. Just listen. It will tell you everything you want to know and make you the happiest you’be ever been.

The people begin to notice. June Bug keeps dancing. 

June Bug always dances.

To any and all. The unsung music of the heart.

June Bug always dances. 

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