"I am matter trapped in reason"
           -scrawl on a restroom stall wall


1am


A couple blocks from the centre of town. The haze of rumbling sub-bass, the buzz of a hundred voices, the multifaceted shapes of flesh in heels and black dresses and puffer-jackets congregating outside nightclubs. Converging on the heart of the city, each voice becomes distinct, discernible from the background noise, a palpable aspect midst the otherwise nebulous air;

'We could just commit? I'd be so down for a chicken scorcher..'
'Ah man it's Gary! Gaary bro! bro! Gary!'
'I-it's okay, do you have your I.D on you? no, aah, no don't lean on the bank doors when vomiting, you might set off an alarm. h-hey, yeah you, sorry, do you have any water she could borrow?'
'Well you know, even though maccas is out of the way...'
'Aww mate gary! GARY! Aww yeah! Show us your ******! Gary!'


2am


A small gathering convenes on the lawn of a nondescript flat. the building next door is covered in scaffolding, a mess of pale grey illuminated orange parallel geometries hanging, droplets of mist swirling in light breeze.  indistinct chatter. Shuffling figures standing around packing herbs into a small metal cartridge. A flickering light. Coughing. Repeat.

On the other side, over a small fence and through a window, a figure stands in his kitchen naked, looking out, watching. An indeterminate expression.  

A voice of the circle calls out.

'Hey! Hey ****! what the ******* looking at?!'

the figure turns away.
'Ha, oh man, I bet he's gonna go get a shotgun. I beat he's gonna ******* **** us!'
('oh man this ****'s naasty')
'**** son, ******* look at him go, I think you're ******* right.'*
('dude, we should ******* maccas, are you keen? I'm keen.')
'Oh man! oh man, I'm so pumped. are you pumped? I'm so pumped. Aah, we're gonna die, I so ******* hope he does.'


3am


The streetlights have gone out a couple blocks down. Rather than the usual orange haze, the dumped cars and pavement are illuminated by the traffic lights alone, a universal filter flickering between crimson and lime.

A man approaches from across the street. Moment of apprehension. Mid twenties. Staggering. Broken nose, blood down front. Flash of switchblade in hand. Increasing apprehension.

'Oi, were you at that party? You with that ****** that ******* punched me?'
'N-nah, sorry, I wasn't there..'
'How do you know if you weren’t there?'
'Well.. which party? not that one over there?'
'No no, the one down that way'
'Where?'
'The one on high street.'
'High street? isn't that like.. somewhere in Mornington?'
'No, it’s.. the one we’re currently on.'
'...wait, really?'
'..yeah? I.. i think so?'
Both start looking around uncertainly, the man looses balance and tumbles rather dramatically into a fern.
'Um. Are you alright...?'
'Haha, yeah, just, rather drunk. and maybe concussed?'
..."/Cough/ ..Anyway, you seem all good ****, don't worry about it, sorry to have bothered you."
/awkwardly puts knife in pocket to shake hands/


4 am


Return to town. Humanities dilution and waning departure. Droves of seagulls dive in, assuming command of the area and the plastic bags. Only a couple handful of figures remain. Police cars and taxis patrol, dance in concentric circles. the last drunken remnants of raving students lie down in the street, clap their heels together

'Tell George to hurry the **** up or he’ll be left behind!'
'What?'
'I said hurry up! We're going for a Maccas mish!'
‘Who?’
'I said we’re going for a Maccas mish!'
‘Aww mate! I’m keen! Hold up.'

Swirling isolated points of light escape from street lamps caught in rows of trees, and a confetti of shadows swim along the sidewalk in motion with the gentle breeze. A twenty something in a hoody cargo shorts and sandals explains to a policeman in breaking drunken fevered tongues how,

     love, love, love, is the godhead and the godhead is love;
       within us reaching out, but also on the outside reaching in,
          it makes you whole by ripping you apart.

while vomiting on the officers car


5am


  A blanketing dampness sets in. not quite rain, but an omnipresent mist. A gentle fog slowly folds out, wavering among pale streetlights. While substanceless, it still holds form as an ambient covering poultice; drawing in the illumination surrounding into opaque convalescence, but then
     dispersing too,
                                    in turn.