Its chandeliers are hanging by the roof miserably, tied by thin and delicate knots, strikingly lopsided; yet illuminating the room, keeping things in place, guiding lost ones to the correct path, like an old man of the house. I put a strange amount of trust in it, when I stroll past the goblets; toppled upside down adjacent to the wine cellar, over what seems like tipsy arbors—like everyone else here tonight.
The brewery on the sixth main, where I gulped an enormous amount last night, mimicked a similar décor; wooden counters, beige wallpapers and amber pedestal lights, except it did not have a soul. It did not correct itself from unscrupulous inanities. It let glasses and bottles smash; on the ground, on the table, on the bar counter and on your head.
Humans did it, most would argue, but the vibe I felt, said it all. The place not only wanted all that to happen but also put a scandalous plan behind it. Perhaps it did that every night; snitched on people, left them bruised, robbed their identities. Or perhaps, it did that when a stranger—like me—invaded its territory. It ambushed him like a predator in disguise. I say so, because my freshly stitched forehead tell me to, in retrospect. Continue reading