The Crash

Once the sun has faded, a previously dark, anonymous building lights up. Ceiling bright with the glare of crushed beer cans. Beer mats inscribed with drunken ramblings and wisdom are jammed between cans, failed attempts and those deemed unworthy litter the floor. The music is loud. It is hard. It is rock. It is roll. More bodies than seem possible fill the small, alcohol infused floor. Beers in hand, chatting, laughing, shouting, screaming, singing. Living. The party will go on until the sun rises and slowly the room empties as bodies stagger and sway their way to work. It's over. At least until the sun goes down again. The punks, the rockers, the goths. The misfits, the loners, the down and out. This is their place, their sanctuary, their home. This is The Crash.