Driplets by Jimmi Campkin. Jimmi is the master of making vignettes live and breathe, of making them inhabitable.
I inhale the smoke and gasp under the lights in this jet black room. Sweating bodies and dead flesh grind and bump around me, so much cadaverous globules. The first pill hasn’t kicked in yet – I can still taste dry ice and hairspray – so I pop another and dream of my future.
Above me on the stage, the party is just getting started. But I don’t party. I’m looking for sensation, real feeling. I see empty men and indifferent women, just so many appendages and openings, no more atuned to love as the assembly instructions for furniture. I’ve already seen a Princess, but the low bass throb is reacting badly with my shoes and I’m struggling to move more than five yards a minute.
It doesn’t matter. She comes over to me, just as the second pill kicks in, and her eyes turn into a pair of gold…
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