The radio was empty tonight; no interesting updates from the good Doctor R and his minions, just endless numbing streams of recycled consciousness. The music felt like pinpricks, little spiders saying hello while he laid on the floor in the middle of his empty yetsososofull sitting room. His thoughts were manifesting as sounds, mingling and mixing and fornicating with Dylan’s hampered, unbelievable voice. Kite, with eyes wide open, embraced his altered reality. Good or bad, it almost never disappointed.

One thought repeated, a broken record skipping and scratching and generally being a nuisance. The only option was to heed it. The nature of things being that to ignore something, the harder it became to do so. Simple logic, even for him. So he brushed off the spiders and sat up, stretching and grinning to himself over nothing in particular. The apex of his evening was passing by, slow, measured, perfect. This shit would sell probably within only a couple days.

Standing, the skinny man picked up his coat where he’d placed it on the edge of the ragged couch a couple hours before. Putting it on, he fought the urge to shake it out for good measure and grabbed his keys. Outside. His brain was crying for air and new sights, a profane physical overload was in order. And though it was late early, he knew of one place where the late-night epicurean visitor would always be welcomed. The Phoenix Club, a walk away. Time enough that he could clear his head well proper enough to manage the stimuli.

Kite wasn’t typically the sort to go for the club scene; often finding it too crowded, too loud, and too ‘fun’ to actually enjoy. He didn’t fall for the general consensus on places like that, but it was his only option other than the diner, and that would have required he maintain some semblance of composure for an extended period of time.

Impossible.

The club it was, then.

He took a walk, colliding bodily into one or two protesters meandering, as spaced as he, on the streets in the process. Slurred apologies, mindful brushing away of germs. Moving on. He arrived whole and unharmed, looking at the doors and passively wondering whether or not entering them would change his fate in some twisted, Star Trek way. Heavy. He walked in, most definitely out of place among the usual spotless male patrons.

Kite was used to looks.