This is where time doesn't matter.
It's when the night goes completely off the reservation. The lights start circling above, like helicopter blades. The vultures are putting on their bibs and grabbing their utensils for what promises to be a four or five-course meal of meaty bones and desserts.
We're pulled into a dead-end alley, toward a night that's had its bell rung.
We see that it's been battered some, but it gives off a lived in feel that's preferable to the converse - the green and inexperienced.
We're sure to learn something tonight.
We're sure to lose something tonight.
This night is brought to you by New York City band Psychic Ills, who are the equivalent to that drink - or those rounds of drinks - that go down so easily, like burning honey, even though they're a million proof, packing that deceptive wallop that rushes at you like a hellbound freight train right…about…now.
Lead singer Tres Warren builds these moments that sucker you into bellying up to the bar and indulging all the way to an oblivion that is going to send you under the table quicker than you could ever imagine getting there. Depending on your state, you might actually be thankful for the assistance, for that poke and the encouragement. He sings, "I'm doing fine. I'm out of my mind," and he enjoys the company in the dead light, in the alabaster haze.