Silver Magic Ships

“No, I’m not putting my hands up. I don’t even like Detroit”. I stand on the outskirts of the smoky karaoke bar, deep in the heart of Chinatown, arms crossed, forbidding myself to participate. My friends on stage are riled up Lady Marmalade style, and the crowd around us is the regular daddy-issue-blondes and football-is-a-real-thing-dudes.

“Come on”, my friend coerces me, “I just found some acid. Let’s drop”.

My night takes a turn of the unexpected kind.

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