Nighttime in P

The light does a cartwheel as we proceed down Rue Descartes, disseminating to surrounding windows and recoagulating into a shread of dense, soiled orange type of parisian light. Our quadrumvirate gets caught up in a mirage of self-satisfied, drunk and tired faces when entering Mouffetard. Tangle of human arms and heads stretching to break the dense, unbearable core of Self. A long walk on the tightrope, the beaming sounds of beasts echoing dread, waiting for us down below. ''Comme tous les touristes!'', exclaims a candidly intoxicated bum with his manly, tall can of Leffe safely tugged between his half-gloves. He starts a strange mantra, echoing the above mentioned phrase about ten times and then withdraws away from us, bowing as he does. He tracks the entrances of different clubs and bars, unable to actually enter in any of them and obviously not-too-heartbroken about such a fact. As we walk in the light not unlike underwater, the stream unites with a salty undercurrent. It's the miasma of tobacco, pot, booze, sex, blood, sweat and  puke. ''Je fais l'amour comme un cheval!'', as we are politely reminded by a yellow collection of predatory faces, their jaws stretching outward as some dangling precipice.

Three hours earlier. I blow a whiff of smoke out of a window, aiming at the inner court of the apartment building. A light at the window on the other side of the yard. When on toes and your torso dangerously tilted out of the window, you can quasiment see the night sky. There are bottles in a row (or occasionally in a perfect cuincunx), posed precociously on a 0,8 m2 cuisine level with no escape except the fall & shreds or the ongoing formation of geographical patterns with their companions in dance. I regain balance and catch a whisk of fresh air, struggling to stay conscious. It is a subcategory of vertigo most commonly known as ''the 15m2 apartment melancholia'' (or, ''the bell jar complex'') that has gotten hold of us, my friend and I. I down a glass of wine and see (to my sincere horror and stupefaction) a picture of Samuel Beckett wearing Gucci. This is P: with your left hand you can open the door, while your right hand is cooking a vegetarian tortilla, while your left foot is writing a thesis and your right foot is mellowing out in the shower. Not to mention your head, with which you can drink and talk bullshit while performing the above mentioned activities. A tiny pocket in the great quarry of steel and rubble.

Five hours later. Sweat and desperation as clear a veil as the red haze of the disco. My vision gets blurry while doing the tango with an extrovert french girl (with a hint of disappointment regarding my dancing skills in her eyes, or might just be my insecurity, never sure). The beautiful french language reduced to a muddy flow of saturated porridge with aggressive and amorous side chords, running between us like a scared child lost in a funfair, exhaling red stench and oscillating wildly between unforgettable beauty and pompous void of the soul. ''Ouai, je suis FINLANDAIS.'' There is a strange mix of on one hand childlike craving for experimentation and liberty and on the other a quiet, lonesome desperation always so apparent, undefinable and firmly anchored to the nightclub experience in general. The forced utilization of body language (as other means of communication are deemed impossible by the infernal volume of the music and the sheer malevolence of the DJ) and eye-contact that makes such a place a near hellish experience for an introvert (near but not totally, hence the compulsion to drag oneself through the same obnoxious experience over and over again ad nauseam). As we exit, meaning my friends and I, the soiled orange has dimmed down, in front of us a sea of burning red dots and mistlike network of frustrated smoke, yawns and singing, relief and rejection. The silent streets of P. carry us homeward, echoing our drunken shouts and wishes. I smoke in chain and aim my rays of exhale as silent prayers at the dim, distantly beautiful buildings. This is the drunken captivity in an insane city, the more insane, the more beautiful.