God…it’s that annoying bassline again.
Repeating and phasing right and left. Panning. Makes that little bit of schizophrenia in all of us,
Makes it come out, and we’re left asking
“Wait…where the hell am I?”
And there’s the realization that they call it ‘trance’ for a reason.
Casting a tow rope down the rabbit hole.
But damn, that’s cliche – seriously…an Alice in Wonderland reference?
Illusion of control; allusion of insanity.
Stumble up to the bar and ask for something thick and viscous. Curacao and blackberry syrup.
But you need some real alcohol in that.
Nah, the curacao, it’s froo-froo. Sparkling wine and Grenadine. Splash of something citrus. Needs a bit more.
Needs a bit less. Estrogen, I mean. It’s like magnets with similar poles. When you exude it, you drive it away. Take note.
I didn’t come here to get laid.
Then why did you come here? The atmosphere?
Swimming through a haze of something deafening and acrid; strobes and booths punching signal like a sonic assembly line, spilling neon photons and lumps of prefab audio out onto acid-stripped floors. It’s so humid the bass drips out of the stacks like sweat running down the back of your butterfly girl.
The DJ… He’s the only sober one here.
Oh yeah…drink that in. The atmosphere. It’s an affront, an assault on every sense, and you can’t help but become every kind of intoxicated in it. Float for a bit and take a drag on the mob.
Smiley faces and energy drinks then, too.
Let’s create a little synesthesia, and I’ll let the sights and sounds make love to me instead.