No pictures, no mirrors, here the image is a banned code, as sight is useless.
The only thing speaking is sound. Here, inside this crumbling derelict, encrusted at the end of a street that seems to stretch in between of nothing.
The taxis' bright lights are a shell of fireflies, maybe waiting for the millipede to slowly walk on.
Very far, in the milky mouth of that mythical entity of which everyone is speaking, with that name that breaks in your palate like a rattle.
We remain silent, hanging on the edge of the question:
will I get in?
The Cerberus at the door decide who to let in and who not, but nobody knows how they do it.
Once in, the silence gets sucked up together with the colours' frequencies, and the pupils have to dilate over the smoke.
Except for the flashing lasers, the console and the director desk on the balcony, there is no other kind of illumination, so it's more than easy to get lost in the gut of corridors around the dancefloor.
It's like we are stuck in a artwork by Escher.
In this post-war hangar techno emerges and makes everyone vibrate at different speeds, as if everyone was following their inner metronome.
After 4am people start to pile up, the dancefloor gets larger like a drop of oil that covers everything, especially what you do not expect.
In the dark rooms between the console I catch a glimpse of bodies winding onto each other, though I'm not really sure.
To trust your eyes is a mistake.
Is “everything allowed”? Probably.
You must jump over your sight to understand this place.
