The flier said it was here, slightly south of the island’s center. You aren’t sure what you were expecting from a ratty piece of green construction paper; looking like a sheet of music with its arrangement of leaves like musical notes, all dancing around the scrimshaw map. An ingenious club advertisement, Berghain in Bali? In truth, all that’s here are rubber trees, and a bare ditch of mossy dirt. Suddenly, all the persistent worries of following a forlorn flier feel vindicated in your irritated, rain dusted head (it’s fucking 2018 and this isn’t Ibiza.) That ditch is far too neat though, smooth and worn in by dancing. Nike’s.
You can’t hear it but you feel it as you step closer to that ditch, rhythm. Kicks. Throbbing. Thankfully the dirt is soft and moist, as you claw into the ditch, subsuming yourself. You’re getting somewhere now, the vague intensity beyond a buried threshold that your joints are practically falling apart trying to dig for. A glance upward from the hole warns of the night, only young and obscured by facades of Lysergia brasiliensis, oozing under starlight and with the growing vibrations.
Mere minutes bring that sound within muffled reach. Just a few more claws of dirt and you’ll be in that erotic righteousness beneath the forest floor, in its dripping latex glory. For half a second, you remember you’ve lost the map and have no idea how you’ll get out. When in that moment? Everything else is peripheral. The floor awaits.
More about: DJ Playstation, Maukook
