i'd rather forget

agnes obel, youngman, and stornoway. bright lights, no lights, cheap wine, wide smile means you are the only teeth in the room. the night is warm and wet. dark and glassy with rain, the streets dart and parry, rush and pull up short with the headlights of cars and scooters, shadows chasing the lights, devouring everything in their wake. running with a light fast heartbeat in small rain slick throat, lazy headed metro rides, full of strangers slurring french, yelling and echoing through the tiled halls of the underground then the slamming doors of the machine and hurtling through tunnels again. more rain and more running. narrow passages of shortcuts between my house and the basement where dancing is free. stacked bodies, pressing in towards the center, pushing out towards the exits, peeling paint and the smoke of ten thousand cigarettes on the walls, old posters from when herman düne used to play here weekends, the narrow stairs slick with sweat and booze, the shadow bodies tearing and knitting together in the red light of the low ceilinged basement and we dance and pant until the lights turn of and the music turns off and the thick armed bouncer wraps us in our our coats and walks us all to the door like a warm hided thick tongued collie and we are herded like tired animals with sweat slick cheeks and necks. we disperse into the pit-dark morning. however you wake up, however you fall into bed, you are alone as the moment you die every moment of your life