Sometimes I have no idea how conversations begin to unfold. There are the obligatory "what do you do's," followed by an awkward silence. You try to conjure all your charm because, didn't someone just say you were charming (of which you misheard as "she's drunk"). You're getting closer and closer to an age where small talk no longer matters, and if the conversation falls down a cliff, then so be it. You take your wine elsewhere to someone you've seen twice around these parts but don't really know his name because both times you were either 醉了 or 高了。He takes this in with a grain of salt and acknowledges your third fateful meeting with the same insouciance that confirms that he's still 醉了 or 高了，that in fact, the most likely scenario is that he's probably in that state of mind most of the time. The most infuriating thing is that the backdrop never really changes. It's the same silver lined condo building that you've taken a photo once four in the goddamn morning and wishing you could howl.
"I hate it when night turns to day."
Once upon a time, when we were young and in New York and it was cool to stumble home at 7AM walking barefoot on cement filled with broken glass and broken hearts. We're missing those days by a thousand miles+ and I count the nights that mean something: the nights at Zhonggulou, gazing at stars with drunk brits and drunk us, crawling home by three and wake up at a proper nine o'clock.
Bath tubs and purple rain, here comes round two.