Lost in the Lights

Back then the weekends hit different. You’d finish work, get home, and the only thing on your mind was where you were going that night. No group chats, no endless scrolling — just a text or a call, a flyer stuffed in your pocket, and the knowledge that somewhere a room was already filling with people who felt exactly the same. The music was loud, the lights were low, and for a few hours nothing else mattered. You danced until your shirt stuck to your back, laughed with strangers who became mates for the night, and walked out into the early morning feeling like you’d been somewhere proper.

Remember the raving eye? You’d pick it up on the way in or find it left on a table between sets. Inside were the nights we’d just had and the ones still to come — line-ups, photos of the floor, bits of news from the scene, the odd daft advert. It wasn’t polished and it didn’t need to be. It was full of the same energy as the rooms it wrote about: sweaty, loud, and full of people who were just happy to be out. Flicking through those pages now is like opening a box of photos you forgot you had. The haircuts, the trainers, the grins — it all comes back.