the night in question was deep in october. the brilliant pearl Lun shown with purity, but for those who recieved it it was translated to a deep rotgut shame, a feeling of unworthyness, of the despair of broken promises of love and poetic grandeur. A shame of responsibility for those colonizers who raped the Lady Lun, assaulting her through the folds of her glowing eternal nightgown. On this night of nights the young ones line up at a parking garage of sorts, abandoned and hopeful, 50 stories tall and three hundred feet across.

to imagine the weight of such a colossus seized the imaginee with cosmic horror; the broken body of the brutality machine. So the children lined up in hopes of reaching the top. the line was thick and impassible, made worse by the ordering of food(as they had been held up in line for days and weeks) as delivery boys jumped about like grasshoppers, calling out names. 
 

then, in gossiping word movement, moving words gossiped that the show was over. the rush to leave was unbearable like nostrils filled with cocaine concrete, the movement was vibrational but unmoving. nobody took the stairs. a car takes the stairs. there's a young man with loks driving down the spiral staircase. the dreamer thinks certainly this is catastrophic, for sure they get stuck in the corners but no, the other young on is filming as the busted sedan works its way down the concrete staircase. brutal.
 

Out of frustation the dreamer of the scene sits down with a group of queer buggies, speaking and bored. they talk in language of social-self-consciousness, meaningless words. all in a sudden curtain drop everyone is gone but some stragglers. the dreamers strangles every one of them, working his way to the bottom floor. the road back into society is undearably dull and desolate.