Immersion Ritual

I went out on a rainy Wednesday night when only cocaine dealers get  out of the house. As I was glaring absent mindedly out the window of the cab, I couldn`t shake the feeling that I was living a life that was not entirely my own. One was not my own at all, really.
Outside, in the calmly chilled dark, hands held each other, some broken, like the inner fabric of their owners. I got off and started walking. Music could be heard from a myriad of places. Clubs, bars, food stalls and passing cars. Soundtracks for the sleepless and the wicked. Girls winked, laughed and shouted as they passed me by. I walked on, indifferent, where probably greater men than me have fallen. I felt this unusual darkspace between me and the world as the cold rain started to slide down my hair.
Along the canals, I strode through places where light shines meekly. Where dealers of dreams whisper like demons through holes in the walls. Their faces obscured. Somewhere in the distance, a girl is crying, a black bird tattooed on her right hand. I didn`t stop for a second to comfort her. I walked on, spellbound, through the ghost lights of Regency Wharf. the boats rocked gently  against the wind and seagulls made shy noises every now and then. I closed my eyes for a couple of seconds and I could see myself in Brighton. The sun, licking my skin. It felt so strangely real. Like a heroin dream that melts away an unstoppable urge to be sinister.
I opened my eyes and the world seemed for some reason,lazier than ever. A slow motion apocalypse in which I silently resumed my immersion ritual.