Imagine a packed frat house on a Saturday night; the cluttered humanity coalesced by an opaque, undergirded promise of excitement. Dimmed lights dance through the stuffy rabble, skimming the edges of a brick-pasted basement.
A procession of horrified shrieks interrupts. Miley Cyrus cuts out. Ambient echoings cease. Repeated wails batter the walls.
And then you see it or rather, her, stumble into a lonely opening. Eyeliner, mixed with tears and snot, splashing through nose, mouth and hair; heels long abandoned, broken; silver sequin dress split down the seam; underwear beginning to show …
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