The London nobody knows

I went to a dark place last night. It was Bronze, and it was Lost Highway, it was a bad neighbourhood of LA and the dirty depths of London, it was filthy jazz and seedy surf, it was flickers of light and strobes and moments here and moments there and silhouettes and secrets. It was warm and sticky and abstract and anything could happen and anything probably did happen and time didn't matter, so much so that I forgot to check it and went home late. It felt like a dream, but this place exists alright.

Back here in the normal world, where work must be done, my colleague and I counsel each other through our extreme tiredness and explode into tears of laughter over absolutely nothing.