Chaos in the abyss of neon

The last fall climbs to the edge of my glass as a courage to jump into the neon’s abyss. Not that I can even see the more grab glass is a vague rotation of bruised colors and half-shaped silhouettes, like some digital echoes of a dying city. The low noise of the bartender’s synthetics mixes with the smell of the burning spices, drowning the maniac chat that slides through the colored air of the smoke.

The drinks are hitting me through my veins, each of them a heavy bass against the dull background of suppressing urban reality. The city is an organism, a smooth and clumsy beast that breathes in electric pulses and excretions broken dreams. I can feel it by wrapping around me, shadows that crawl spine while resting on the plasma glass bar, its pulsating edges rhythmically like a heartbeat – 280 bpm, fast and chaotic, just like the night outside.

My gaze wanders through the pallor, slipping through semi -shaped figures by climbing and flowing like haunted pixels in a lost Hologram. Face. Essential everyone tells a story, whispers their ambitions, their vices. I bump, but nothing focuses. It simply blurred and falling and falling, until something sharp catches my eye – a woman in a golden leather coat, tattoos sitting on her arms as data lines. Her eyes are sharp, cybernetic, under a cascade of synthetic hair; A fraudulent, vibrant and non -filtered algorithm.

“Hey!” She grins, revealing a metal allusion below her lips and rolls in his grass next to mine. “You seem to have drunk a thousand pity.”

“Only nine hundred ninety -eight,” I manage, words that diminish as a bad remix. “Just keeping the count. You know what it is – every point of accounts.”

It laughs – a sound like static cracking on an old radio, fighting with life, difficult to read, but no doubt magnetic. “Then why do you keep counting? Just drink up to the past that melts.”

Fuck, it makes sense, kind. I am supported forward, trying to catch something real in the fog, but the lights pulsate more tightly, and my head sinks deeper into the embrace of drinks. Memories are torn down as the neon diahard-the fresh shaving leather, the sharp smell of metals against meat and the low stroke of sweaty clandestine encounters in those twisted alleys, all sewn into the structure of this city.

I met backstreets not long after trading in my last scrap of a conventional life. Backstreet, they say, is alive at night, a hungry beast for souls seeking to slip between the cracks of a world that has long abandoned them. I never came back. . . Not really.

“You have a return reaction?” The voice of my new companion attracts me again, the jet-black irises drilling through the masms. “Beware, those places can be rough if you are in the wrong mood.”

Billing to the top, I think of those corridors of Backstreet-Ato-filled with semi-functioning road lights, shading as a hungry noise for the secrets. They are the veins of this rotting paradise, where they are rejected and the disappointed queue for their latest digital arrangement. It is a field governed by chaos, but still governed – entropy has rules, chaos has laws.

I remember the last time I wandered very far away on those winding paths, in the drowning of chrome and concrete, calling raw relationships with ais with glitchy that spit the answers as often as you got your loans. By spitting polished insults in passers-by while rolling virtual coins, I felt like a techno-spirit in a full grass world. But I’m here now, the ears still buzz with the complications coded in this city – the endless layers of humanity that climb clumsy to something beautiful.

My drink turns, another bribe for Barina. The bartender’s face swims in focus – a slide of a smile, or maybe it’s a sneeze. Who cares? I throw the contents back into a move. Liquid fire burns my throat, and its strict strength feels like liberation, like war paint before drawing on that pixed battlefield that is reality. It crashes my elbows in the rod and tooth soil, enjoying the sensation until the deaf lips under the intoxicating moisture.

“Your funeral”. The woman smiles, leaning back and staring at a nose ring filled with glowing green lights. “Gotta I love the hard things.”

“Not a funeral, a resurrection, baby,” I answer, very loudly. “Gotta holds the grace moving. A little tequila, and I’m back on my feet, dancing with the digital ghosts of my dreams.”

“I can’t say if you are too deep in this or too far away,” she says, her voice immersed in the ends of my consciousness as a constant spider. “But hey, some of us actually love chaos.”

It moves for a drink, and I see the bartender pour clear juice into a chopped glass – something dangerous, intended only for the brave. I feel a well -known sensation that throws through me – the demand to dive deeper into the shade, to embrace the raw chaos lying under the synthetic skin of the city.

“How’s your name?” I ask suddenly, uncertain if it is even introduced in the twisted fog of noise and static.

“Cira. Your?”

“Why does it matter? I’m just here, mixing,” I make the gesture unclear for the phantoms that are grinded, each lost in their techno. “Besides, no one ever remembers real names. Just code – an id number, an avatar, a digital ghost.”

“Touché”. She throws her drink again. “But we are human, or not? Meat and blood if we can forget the wires and screens.”

I want to tell her that I have tried; I have woken up countless times by tightening in memories as so many faded signals, desperate to shake them with the red strands of what was once true. Instead, I catch her gaze while traveling to the door – a gentle, liquid look, and suddenly I feel it too; Somewhere there at night, in the background, the pulse swells like a heartbeat trying to warn you something is coming.

“Are you ready to go out?” The cira voice pulls me out of my Reveria, a jinn inviting me to her world. “I’ve got some links down to Warren – the bold parts of the city, places where dreams go to drown.”

“Warren?” I laugh, a fragile sound. “Then lead to, the gloomy curator of madness. I am fresh from the nightmare and overflowing out of desire.”

“Well,” smiles she, sliding outside the excrement as a show. “Let’s see how deep this rabbit hole goes.”

The door shakes, and the grass cacophony rushes to greet reality – the city’s city of breathing with every step, while my feet lead me from the false comfort of warm shine in the backstreet moon paint. Haza is scattered in fragility; The walls presented grow with graphite -lit emotions while Alleyways make me invite me home.

Breato’s breath here begins to pulsate at rhythm with the metropolis veins, and neon lights shine on the path like sycofantic stars calling wrong.

“Climb”, Cira whispers and I can feel the blowing of excitement between us, like a prelude to a sensory congestion symphony.

“You lead,” I answer, each word filled with the energy of the underground wild heart.

And so we wander through groups of fraudulent, eating techniques of them and zero, trade visions and dreams of the price of existence. We walk through the glowing screens showing tales of lost identities, hopes traded for flying bytes and faded pixels.

Here, everything is confused – a labyrinth of light and shadow, digital ghosts and vivid breaths that collide into endless verses. Stepdo steps heralds a new opportunity, a new background in any madness ascends to the ends of reality.

Somewhere between here and tomorrow, we become simple algorithms-full-full in an ever-changing network. I embrace the chaos, drunk by visions by shaking in my mind, feeling the crashing aromas and structures, a bunch of avatars screaming for the existence between urban clangor.

Once you hug Backstreet, it never lets go.

Author: Opney. Illustrator: Stab. Publisher: Cyber.