CIELO by CHRISTOPHER LANGE
Normally I don’t drink screwdrivers, but I was caught off guard at the bar, and ordered the first thing that came to mind.
As I stepped onto the edge of the dance floor, I watched the mass of bodies pulsing and undulating in unison in front of me as my heart thundered against my ribcage.
Flashing lights and bursts of lasers ripped through the darkness like scalpel blades, dissecting the crowd into singular beings for fractions of a second.
A face here, an arm there, perhaps a briefly shared look before the darkness surged over the room once again.
My glass was empty.
I leaned against one of the columns at the edge of the floor and took it all in before slinging my camera across my chest, disappearing into the swarm of ghosts.