We wanna go somewhere else. We’re not threatened by people anymore. All our insecurities have evaporated. We’re in the clouds now. We’re wide open. We’re spacemen orbiting the earth. The world looks beautiful from here, man. We’re nympholeptics, desiring for the unobtainable. We risk sanity for moments of temporary enlightenment. So many ideas. So little memory. The last thought killed by anticipation of the next. We embrace an overwhelming feeling of love. We flow in unison. We’re together. I wish this was real. We want a universal level of togetherness, where we’re comfortable with everyone. We’re in rhythm. Part of a movement. A movement to escape. We wave goodbye. Ultimately, we just want to be happy. Heh, yeah, hang on, what the fuck was I just talking about?

Jip, Human Traffic (1999)

Human Traffic. Jeremy Factsman. Reach for the lasers. Track is Mantra by Quake.

Every club is different, but in the Asylum it’s the manager. He has a string of homeboys dealing the pucker Es to the party people in the club. He makes the most coin out of this enterprise. His homies will make just a couple of quid on each pucker. His homies are also scoping for other dealers on the block. When the homies have an illegitimate pucker E dealer in their eyesight they tell the bouncers. The bouncers grip him, nab his stash and kick him out with a physical warning. They give the pucker Es to their homies and they sell it on to the kids in the club.

What’s your name?

What have you had?

Reach for the lasers.

Safe as fuck.