I’m lost in a dark queue. It’s like the most sophisticated queue to get in a club you’ve ever encountered. There’s the queue outdoors in the night, which is nothing. I make the cut and go inside. But there is no there in there. The entire thing is about the appraisal. Are you over twenty-one? Do you have the cover? Can you afford the two-drink minimum? Are you fit to be here? Are you fit to remain here? What do you have to offer? It’s so dark. There are black lights and gel lights flashing here and there. It feels like just around the corner is the real club with music and dancing, but it never comes. Indistinct, loud, thudding music; intoxication; it’s just part of the ambiance. Everything seems taken care of eventually. You’re hungry, you ask no one in particular for fifteen dollars worth of pizza and it comes. If you didn’t specify which kind, someone in some part of the procedure did. It was strangely effortless. Everything is. Decisions are made by the system. You succumb to a benevolent languidity. If you don’t want to look anymore, your eyes blur. You can sleep. You can eat. You can laugh and be silly, nothing seems to matter. If you try to swim to the light things get nasty. Your body hurts, your head hurts, your brain hurts. Thoughts literally hurt. Voices hurt. Talking hurts. Light hurts. The depths are the path of least resistance and the path forward and the path of fun and the path of danger. You only try the light out of curiosity, but it’s terrible. The party rages on in the dark and you feel if not love, a complete absence of unlike. A beautiful all encompassing not unlike and you are sure, that the entire universe does not unlike you and is connected to you and everything else in a perfect, wholly not unlikeable way.