Not sure about the pace, but the rhythm is right.
I see you on a curved stage, the ground gritty. Concrete.
White lights illuminate a perfect circle around you. For a second it seems as if the glowing circle is swallowing you, and your shadow is tethering your body to the lip of a well. But then the illusion goes away, and there you stand.
There is noise. I try to pay attention, but I can’t.
I am distracted by your skin. It is shiny like glass. I can see your blood rivering its way through your body, collecting in pools and spraying itself against the tendons of your muscles — which are clenched.
I am jarred, un-nerved by your scars.