For the record, I suppose it should be stated I lost my soul in Vegas. I would love to go back there and find it among those glittering lights and buffet tables of never-ending artful desserts. It's funny that all I really remember are those pretty desserts and fried mashed potatoes. I want those things back.
I'm like a raver with those lights. I want to consume them. I want to glow in my pores. Not the cliched glow that wraps itself around the impregnated many, but the glow that comes from sitting next to neon for too long. That it could somehow stain you. Rub off like fairy dust on skin. That I could fly away due to its energy or wishful thinking.
Take me back to Vegas, where they still hand that out for free by the boatload. I need not gamble. I need not glad-hand. I would simply sit idly by the buzzing of pinks and blues and greens and reds. And me and those cheap 1920's lights will have a moment, a moment I can share with the cocktail waitress who asks me for the third time if I'm sure I don't need a little refresher drink.