It was New Year’s Eve in an abandoned mall, neon tubes screaming and zombies sweating joy at 140 bpm, boggle-eyed truth at 120 dB. We were all limbs and glow, powdered with promise, metamorphosing into eternal winged midnight, starred tongues pressed savage into the clefts of strangers’ songs. No one had cameras then. No one had phones. No one had lives to step back into when the bell tolled and taxis scattered like bugs beneath a lifted rock. I lit the tip of a cigarette and passed it to a grinning cadaver, quavering in Day-Glo. A barefoot princess winked from the point where fairy tale unlocks the door to myth. The air was alive with red balloons, and clocks spilled resolutions that were broken before hitting the floor. In the car park, litter waltzed in grey, and a gold coach with four white horses waited for whatever we’d become.

Bio: Oz Hardwick