‘Your reflection in a window trembling from the bass on the 18th floor. Sweat slicked, shirt clinging to your back and that soft, charged daze of the night hitting its peak. You’ve danced through bodies, through beats and through someone else’s hotel room. The city skyline pulses like a bruise while techno melts into a hangover. Two mouths meeting on impulse and you forgot their name hours ago. Now you’re at the front desk begging for a late checkout.’ – Blind Barber
