The Scope Club

I’ve visited my brothers in London. I realise I’ve bought too much vinyl, and a collapsible red metal pyramid cage, and ice I way to transport it all back home. I ask them nicely if I can leave it there for a while. They agree. 
I play with a visualisation of a New Berlin on my iPhone. I fly through giant towers, creating huge courtyards at the bottom. Speakers play samples of feedback, using motion sensors to detect where I am. I fly into a gallery, as a bird, and steal and swap hats on the gallery attendants and members of the public. I try to escape through a window, but it’s too small. I find a flap in a wall, that leads to an exit door. 
On the street, I’m by my favourite club, the Opthamologist’s Scope. The front of the building is dirty glass, decorated with torn plastic bags. I remember that inside, in the dark bar, crazy creative people try to sell you their latest fanzine for £5. I wander back to where I’m staying, aware that I can never remember how to get to the club. I pass a bar, another favourite place, all rosewood furniture and large, glass doors. Great for food. The name escapes me. Back where I’m staying, I share pizza for a friends sons birthday party. I thank them as I leave. J calls me to a window. I look out at Venus in a stunning red sunset. I get ready to join J at my rosewood bar, he’s eating, I’ll just have wine. I convince him to try the Scope club later, I think he’ll like it. 


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