Maybe we don’t exist at all. Maybe we’re only the photographs, brief flashes of light caught between darkness and dawn. I’ve lost certainty about which side of existence we are on.

When a room full of beautiful people is what I need most, I go to The Continental, where no matter how chaotic things get, everyone arrives looking incredible.

Lio is leaving and the Familia gets a few final nights to dance while holding eachother for emotional support.

My Saturday turned into an intergalactic problem involving underground clubs, particle cannons, pharmaceutical optimism and an efficient office operating from a couch.

I arrived at Valmoor already running behind, badly organized and discovered I grabbed the wrong camera, which somehow made everything look even more suspicious.

I sometimes wonder if nightlife has completely detached me from reality or merely replaced it with a better-looking simulation.

After a difficult weekend and with an upcoming exhibition killing my nervous system, I met with my dealer and accidentally ended up at a roadside bar.

Sonance reopened (again) and later at Rote Hase we handed each other disco vitamins while the evening accelerated toward future regret.

Tomorrow, the third edition of BE SEEN opens. Another selection of nightlife portraits surrounded by music and people pretending to be art critics for the evening. Come join me!

After yet another questionable night, I found myself dreaming of a dungeon surrounded by chains and cages.

Or at least, I thought I was.

Too many clubs. Too many events. Too many people asking “Doreen, what’s going on?”

So I made a list.

After a week of emotional recovery, I was ready for another club opening. Then Hera dragged me into the bathrooms at The Cage before I’d even finished my first drink.

A mysterious invitation led me into a hidden punk bunker where the walls sweated, the music screamed and absolutely nobody cared about safety regulations.

I abandoned the calendar for one night and attempted to navigate the nightlife entirely on instinct. Naturally it turned into a cascading series of missed sets and public humiliation.

Emotional devastation in heels. By the time I reached Valmoor, Invad3r was already dropping his final beats into the Boiler Room, leaving me with only fragments of the night to survive on.

I’m starting to suspect the club scene has quietly organized itself around my destruction and that I’m currently held together by determination, questionable chemistry and excellent lighting.

Clubs, like ex boyfriends, leave gaps you quietly fill with something else. And then they return and ruin all your progress.

Sonance did exactly that.

Tell me again why this felt like a dream in which I went looking for a club and found one with a countdown. One last night, and everything slowly turned green.

Red lighting and I don’t usually get along. It ruins perfectly good nights before they begin.

The Rote Hase fixed that problem and turned it into something dangerously good.

I don't usually wake up like this, but Wednesday I did. Newstead Abbey was calling and I don't ignore calls like that.

Proceed with caution.