Evening. Overcast. House party.

Denis drifts through a haze of smoke, caught in the chaos of the party. He leans against a wall, disheveled, with the kind of blank stare you get after 8mg of MDMA and three lines of coke. Despite it all, there’s an odd calmness about him.

The music pounds. People laugh and shout over each other. He glances around the room, detached. The house reeks of sweat and sex.

DENIS
(to himself, muttering)
"I want to buzz the fuck out of my mind."

The hallway is crammed with people—drinking, kissing, snorting, dancing—bodies colliding in the chaos. A hand brushes his forearm. Someone tries to slip their hand under his t-shirt, but he doesn’t react.

I gather my thoughts as the sounds in the room fade, like they’re being pulled from my ears. Moving through the haze of weed smoke, I feel the weight of my legs, as if they’re not entirely mine. My eyes close. I take a breath.

Maybe I’m finally relieved, I think.

Sacred places are meant to carry the weight of our hidden sins. To wash away the emotional burdens we don’t know how to face. We cling to the hope that something greater, stronger, and more forgiving will absolve us.

People around me are talking, touching. Kissing. Half-naked girls dancing. I’m floating, drifting through it all like a ghost. It feels like I’m stepping into a dark labyrinth.

When was the last time I felt like this?

Tell me, is it worth it? To numb myself, trying to find balance as the drugs settle in. But even as I float, I can still feel it—that familiar darkness, lingering just beneath the surface.

The other half of my brain—my shadow self—stirs. I’ve searched the darkest corners of my mind before, lost in a psychedelic haze. Now, I’m half-asleep, stuck in a dream-like state. Wandering through the fog, I try to assess who I am. My identity feels like a puzzle I’ll never finish.

A burst of light cuts through the darkness as someone opens a door. Music echoes through the hallway, but everyone else seems oblivious to the moment. He slips inside and vanishes.

I follow, opening the door slowly. Inside, naked bodies are piled around a clean, crisp bed, stacked like pillows. It looks like a painting, perfectly composed, and I find myself staring with quiet admiration.

Then, I feel a hand on my arm. Someone pulls me into the heap of bodies. Lately, this kind of closeness feels more like comfort than disappearing into a crowd. The room is full of muffled voices, distant and meaningless.

Here I am, standing still in silence. Not because I believe in some higher power or feel the need to bare myself before God for the wrongs I’ve done. But because this—this numb state—is the only place I can escape to.

It’s a drug-like haze, a profound detachment. Or maybe it’s something else—a kind of peace, followed by an eerie calm spreading through my body. Hallucinogenic dissociatives consume me, pulling me deep into the inner workings of my mind. It feels like a strange mastery over chaos, but I’m not sure who’s really in control.

I close my eyes and stare into the abyss. Thick, cloudy steam wraps around my face. I can’t recognize myself anymore. I’ve become a stranger, lost in my own mind. Hopelessness settles in, heavy and unmoving.

I feel like stone. Like the statue in the living room—still, fragile, yet somehow beautiful. In fleeting moments, I find comfort in touch, cherishing its quiet complexity.

I wipe down the surface of my android, lay out a few lines of coke, snort them, and toss the rest of the bag—along with my sins.

What a mess.

I’m buzzing with the same restless hunger as the people standing in line, everything feeling like a bad joke. Whatever’s buried deep in my bones is begging to break free. I used to treat it like a starving dog, howling at strangers, desperate for an escape.

Old patterns never really die.