Two hangover DJs walk the streets of their beloved neighborhood on a sunny Sunday. Everything is already wonderful. They were magical behind the booth the night before. The dancefloor was packed and hysterical. They kicked ass. Still, there is room for the unexpected scene.
The doorsteps of a brownstone. She is loud. Her voice is as powerful as her whole presence. Black high heels boots. White suit and white hat. Red shirt, red lipstick. She sings loud and the chorus says, "it's the music, it's the music." Something like that. Roaring. She probably does it very often because nobody else cares except for the two DJs. They even stopped to see her big eyes and the modulations of her throat. She points to nowhere while keeps the rhythm with her left foot tapping.
She is loud. They know the "it's the music" roar is for the rest of their lives.
