Tonight.

Come marked for slaughter and prepared for failure. In this crowd of faceless, twisting, stinking bodies, babbling on and on, you inhale the whiskey and the smoke and the sweat and the crass body oils, resting pitifully in the fact that never expecting success lessens the sting of failure. You walk the path of the defeatist, footsteps sliding across the rainbow-coloured glowing squares, brushing past the denizens of a world you cannot understand and cannot understand you.

High heels, lip stick, perfume, nail polish, crass Axe Cologne, vanity, superficiality, loud music; yet you see, hear, and feel absolutely nothing. You'd like to snatch the mirth from their faces and erase those laughs in the air, but as usual, your impotence leaves you with nothing but the choice to take it.

Order another drink, pass the fuck out, and try to forget the time that you wasted last night.

Then you smoke 'cause everyone else is doing it, and you don't give a fuck, and you get that urge to destroy yourself again. And maybe through the veil of smoke, someone will see.

They don't. You're the life of the party, a badass motherfucker who no one really knows or really will. And it's all for the best, 'cause they'd lynch you when they found out what's lurking beneath.