I would love to say that early Saturday mornings under the lights have always been about escapism. Following her footsteps through the silence and the calm at dawn still eradicates a part of the void in my heart, but for every new week it gets a little harder.
She's in the spotlight somewhere in East Village, I'm
drawn to the darkness away from the noise. Her, moving like cigarette
smoke from body to body, an eery feeling of being watched creeps up on
me. I make my way through the crowds to talk to her, as I put my hand on
her damp naked shoulder I hear a whisper close to my ear, a masculine
voice piercing through the music: "I know all your secrets".
I turn around and there's no one there, just a hazy vibrating blur of black and blue. Six hours to sunrise.