There’s a certain point in the night at which time becomes something like maple syrup that’s caught midway between the base of the bottle and the lip of the dispenser; no ability to discern exactly how long its been moving along so far, just a sweet mix of indulgence and slow-burning energy.
We arrive a group. Like many groups, our group eventually melts into a mold of many groups from all stretches of the metropolitan jungle. We’ve now fully assimilated into the formless, amorphous dance swelling in a neon cave of $15 scotch.
We are guests in the house of Mother Fate tonight, and she is a fickle one. However, judging by the pressure of painted nails on my waistline, I have to assume that so far I’m doing something right.