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It is dark and 1 am and the cat is sneezing somewhere in the kitchen. The blinds are slightly open and I keep seeing this ghost of light fly from the top of the doorframe to the ceiling. At first I thought it was the cat but then I realized there’s nothing there to jump on.

It’s 1 am and there’s still traffic outside; there are too many people here so they never sleep and always drive their cars. People are always busy but I never see them get anything done. Everyone says they’re creative or musical but I don’t see it. What the hell are people doing here? I look out the window to see my car parked on the road, taking up whatever piece of cement it can.

I don’t know what people are doing out there, but the blinds are closed now and the cat is sleeping on my pillow. It’s so expensive to live here I don’t think people have time to do anything but work to make money and then use the rest of their time spending their money on things that are easy to buy: fancy cars and expensive clothes and whatever health or food thing is popular. Do people even talk to each other? I don’t know. I’m remembering this one time a grown woman from here recorded herself crying on her laptop and sent it out. I don’t think that’s the way to deal with sadness but maybe it’s the easiest way. If you send picture proof you don’t have to talk about it or think about it after you push a button.

It is not worse or better here than elsewhere, not yet. It is almost December and the tourists still come to take pictures of the palm trees. The palm trees are still lovely. And now they are covered with lights and giant decorative snowflakes hang down from them in a place where it never snows.

You walk in and air the feels heavy, thick. The overwhelming sound of the concert is like fog – covering everything, everywhere, making it difficult to function. Your senses adapt: your ears cower from the assault, your eyes widen and take in the scene. Your mind melds into the crowd, becoming a different beast.

The people stand side-by-side in lines of strangers. Friends greet beneath the multi-colored lights; screams in ears become whispers, barely heard through the amplified beats of the kick-drum and strums of the bass.

The men stand with feet shoulder-width apart, gazing. It is unclear if this has happened as a concert-goer agreement, or by chance alone. Perhaps this is some natural rock concert evolution.

The women huddle together, or stand in the front, moving to the beat. Many hold cameras, and snap pictures as they dance, surely blurry.

The band on stage is another monster. They flow together like their music, moving with each note, smiling, screaming, sweating. Sips of water between songs and awkward jokes to the crowd as they tune their guitars briefly reminds the room of their humanity.

Men with beards and women with long earrings. Teenagers with backpacks. A water bottle pulled from a coat pocket. Lights and sound. Band members leaning casually against cement walls. Tattooed arms and greasy hair.

A concert. A show. A moment. A memory.