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Fractured memories of a fateful evening lead to Hitchcock references and uncharacteristic optimism.
The lipstick-stained remains of a crumpled handkerchief left on the table overnight, after the club. Where the strobing lasers lit my drink and I couldn't help but think of Cary Grant under Suspicion. Through the fog, I swore I saw utopian landmarks on the horizon, abstract visions of the possibilities - and when the lights came back on I was pleasantly surprised to see my eyes were not deceived.