One Night Too Far
What they never tell you about nightlife is that even a gorgeous body like mine, will start to complain.
People did warn me about this. About what happens when you keep stretching your nights further than they were ever meant to go. When sleep becomes a vague administrative suggestion and your solution to exhaustion starts arriving in little glasses, suspicious baggies or from people who look far too enthusiastic while offering you “something that helps.”
So at some point your brain stops distinguishing between memory, fantasy and whatever happened in the toilet stalls at 3AM and I think last night I may have been that point.
It probably started earlier in the evening when I found myself thinking about my first years in this world. Back then you couldn’t turn a corner without accidentally stumbling into some underground dungeon full of people dramatically moaning at each other. Gor, they called it. Something involving dominance, submission, rituals and enough leather to finance a small cattle town for decades.
I know the people involved would passionately explain the deeper philosophy behind it all, but at the time I understood exactly one thing: I should absolutely keep walking. Because I’m not dominated, I dominate. I dominate the public space, your timelines, your billboards. The little sponsored ads between your funny cat videos. Magazine covers. Campaigns. Entire social atmospheres, really. But you already know this. It is, after all, how we met.
Anyway.
Coming home from Sonance and later Rote Hase, from which I will share the details with you later, I was reasonably certain somebody handed me something that should probably not have been near human organs, I already felt slightly detached from reality. Not dramatically. Just enough to notice things with a level of blur that I didn’t appreciate. And then things became strange.
Because suddenly I was somewhere underneath Newstead Abbey, inside what could only be described as a medieval fever dream. A dungeon filled with cages, chains, crosses and people dressed like they had lost a very specific bet. I recognized faces, though not entirely. Everyone seemed familiar in the unsettling way dreams recycle people from your memory while rearranging them into something else entirely.
And somehow we were all participating.
People were dragged around while others seemed deeply committed to being restrained against woodworks. There were whips. Chains. Somebody was suspended from something that definitely violated several building regulations. Did I mention I saw no toilets? Pleasure and pain blended together in that confusing way humans sometimes insist on enjoying. And through all of it I heard DJ Lili again. Which is how I knew this could not possibly be real. No human being can deliver that many good sets in one week without entering some higher spiritual plane.
At some point everything blurred together completely. Maybe it was the alcohol. Maybe the drugs. Maybe someone touched me in exactly the right place once too often. Maybe my exhausted brain simply gave up and outsourced the rest of the evening to pure hallucination. I only know that I woke up this morning with that strange softness good dreams leave behind. The kind where reality feels slightly disappointing for a few seconds after opening your eyes. So naturally I was prepared to dismiss the entire thing as chemical fiction.
Until I checked my camera.
And now I would genuinely appreciate it if someone explained to me how all these photographs got there.
Click them for a larger resolution and save.
This post is not sponsored or paid for in any way. I was also not blackmailed or tortured to write it.
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