Date: 2010-09-26 21:02:41 Created: 2010-09-26 17:02:41
The writer was in his bed, behatted, writing. A window was open just a fraction, letting a trickle of cool autumn night air in. Here he was cushioned in his own world, his own music flowing, his fingers producing words, his thoughts and impressions flowing softly in and out of focus. The present grasped for, slowed down and put into focus, creating a distinct space between the always incoming future and the long line of the past.
The night clubber was leaning on the bar, letting the pulse of the club fill him. Here he was cushioned in his own world; beats, movements, colours, shapes and drinks forming a safe cocoon. Endless possibilities of interactions. A cocoon which could last forever in that very moment. It takes skill, but it can be done for hours, or suddenly break like a butterfly on a windshield when the wrong energy hits.