The beach was sunk in darkness and the only source of light was a perfectly round , icy moon which made the sea seem a sparkling pool of melt silver. Oh, if only I could describe that rich dark ink-blue of the summer sky, or the subtile line contured by the water in the grey sand. I was thinking that such a predictable, mainstream association of elements could not raise any kind of emotion in me, but I was so wrong, so wrong that shock hit me like a way too direct bullet. It was a perfect night for running away, for making love or for killing yourself. Sadly , I only did the first thing. I had been cordially invited to a fancy-trendy-glamshit party in one of the most pointlessly expensive nightclubs, but at one point I couldn't take it anymore, adn grabbed a bottle of vodka and one of my best friends and ran away on the beach. I was too sick and too tired of all those people, that over-the top sexuality, the music that made my head fall apart, but the thing that disgusted me the most was fucking glitter: on the walls, on clothes , on lips, inside brains. It was like after inhaling so much glitter I could finally get a breath of the fresh, salty marine air and feel alive. That is why I ran away: my presence on that beach was way more worthy than in any other place. Just the 2 of us, two souls connected by headphones, two huge and impeccable spirits puffing from their funky ciggarettes, two pairs of lips in desperate need of touching each other. See, it's not that hard to make me happy.
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