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The points of light beckoned to him, flirted with him, looked sadly down at him and he looked dumbly back at them. A light breeze whispered over his face, his eyes watered a little. A couple, hand in hand, stepped over him, temporarily blocking out his view. A few women walked towards his splayed out form and then walked past. His eyes flicked onto their faces but they were conservatively dressed and unattractive and he turned his eyes back to the stars before he could meet their glances of disdain. His hand moved to his groin but it was too much effort and he let his hand flop back to the ground. He tried once more, and flopped once more, theatrical in his drunkenness.
    He tried to recall what things used to be like, so many years ago, but it was like thinking of someone else, some young boy who was not him and who was only a fiction. He knew vaguely that this wasn’t always the way, that there were things before, things to grab onto and not let go. As they were stolen from him, as his childhood was taken by the world, he had had to find something new. The fancies of a kid were no longer appropriate in an adult world. There had to be something an adult could cling onto, could desire and nurture and fantasise about – and there was, and he had found it, and it had erased almost everything else in him.
    Nothing else could arouse in him such interest, such excitement, such love for the real world. He was the hedonist among hedonists. The pervert god.
    The dreams of old, the dreams of the young had become off-limits, barred by squirming pink tentacles, puckering and oozing and wet with juices. His dreams, his desires and ambitions were now all lurid, obscene, full of heat and weeping fury. Passion so intense it could break you down, make you cry, rip yourself apart, rip another apart. Passion to kill. An intimacy so depraved, so sickly, so sick , that it rushed through your body like magma, taking control of everything, making you sweat lust, unfocusing your vision, turning you inside out, turned you vacant, pig meat to rut, to feel a crazed obsession, pounding, pounding his heart faster and faster until it hummed, until it burst, until it bled all over his insides and the blood melded with the rest of the magma and steamed and hissed and the steam blurred out his eyes.
    There was nothing like it. He became an animal, a higher being, a holy spirit – a devil guiding the flesh. Writhing and thrusting, commanding and obeying, feeling, connecting, joining, creating and destroying, he touched at the coattails of raw power. To be godlike in his godlessness.
    It was all there was, for there was nothing else left to him. He was just thankful that all there was was just enough.
     
    Two hours later and a slightly sobered up Red had met up with Mr White back at the hotel and convinced him to leave. Red had assured him of the fun to be had in District Ten, despite acknowledging that there was only a single, prime illegal, that being (here he muttered under his breath) a ban on all anal activity. Not that conducting themselves in this otherwise tolerant district could possibly be relaxing what with Red being such a connoisseur of the excretory side of life. But Mr White was happy to follow him wherever he led them, and he did so. Red was insistent not to dally around, not even stop for a bite to eat, and Mr White found himself having to walk faster than usual in order to keep up to his pace, which eventually slowed the further they got from the area, though Red continued to look  about him like a twitching animal.
    The streets slid on all sides as if they were on rails. Theatre backdrops turned on some hidden winch, a scenery on repeat, re-using buildings, trash, people.
    They passed little cracked bulbs nestled in grating coming out brick walls with the bricks crumbling and broken. Some buildings looked as if they had suffered some air raid or street bombing and if anything they passed looked repaired it was work without effort or