The light bounces off the walls made of recycled doors with steel plates covering their holey bits. The overhead 60s lamps drip orange and vanilla. The bar bursts out the door onto the street. The chef is sweeping food droppings out of the kitchen. The bar will close before the d.j. drops.
Someone takes coins from the telephone box to feed the cigarette machine.
The night won't be over for the ones still here because our heads buzz with sound, we burst with not-begun ideas and bodies slam into remotor. . . . A bar is a street suite, a wet dream of people. I am a slippery octopus with age-old eyes staring at events I recognise but still can be caught by and skin tastes peppery fresh. To go to review.