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.
