I begin to regret attending this party. The room smells of grime and self-mutilation. I know the smiles plastered to their faces are drawn by the rims of their plastic cups, they know only of words like "maybe", "sour", and "tomorrow." My skin shrivels and shrinks like cotton in the dryer, the walls are closing in, expelling air from my lungs. Their feet tap-tap-tapping, mimicking the drumbeat you can feel deep in your throat, dominant but never quite on time like a teenage boy punching through the drywall of his bedroom in the basement, like my heartbeat, audible even without a stethoscope.

I look to my left and see a girl I recognize from some place or another with eyes rolling around like 8-balls, breath dense with some doe-eyed boy's faulty attempt at persuasion through intoxication. I observe the way her body drapes over the couch like somebody's jacket carelessly tossed aside, out of sight and certainly out of mind. I look to my right and lock eyes with the clock hanging on the wall by a noose that chokes minutes out of perfectly good hours until all is consumed by a blackhole labeled "the past." The ticking hands mock me as they wear their ability to travel forward with such arrogance. For them, it is impossible to retrace steps, impossible to frozen on moments of pain, regret, heartbreak when their sole purpose is to pull the future into the present in a way that is nearly identical to the boys who have been pulling lies from their throats for the past hour. Time is pompous and proud and it makes me sick because I am still sitting in a room filled with faceless bodies dawning mirrors in place of their faces unable to leave. My curiosity keeps me nailed to this spot. For a moment I am almost fooled into becoming yet another hostage to the neon lights. Caught in a trance, victim of the misty lie that boasts youth, adventure, danger, unadulterated life.

Almost.

It is about that time of night when nearly everyone topples on top of one each other in various forms of contact; some are tragic, others are just lukewarm versions of similar fates. Some will fall to their knees, succumbing to the poison corrupting their bloodstream. Others collapse into beds with strangers they did no wake up next to that morning and may not see again tomorrow and, yet again, I rise from my throne in the corner unwavering, alone, and far too aware of myself. I exit the party and feel that my body has somehow disconnected from my mind.

But at least I can still find my way home.