Real World (not really) but really.

This character travels.  8:00 PM or so, his keys wrangled, clothing assembled, waiting on a girl occurs, doing similar things, but girlishly.  She wants a ride to her birthday boys house.  She's lovely, and glad to go for the evening.  He drives her.  After taking a snapshot of a recently drawn chalk sigil that symbolised the intersecting loci of the Hyper-sphere certain cosmological models make out to be the way the universe we're in right now works; he starts up the car and they jet off.

Dropoff is a nice capsule summary of their relationship, taking a different road just for the hell of it.  A micro-adventure is always an option in her sphere, appreciating that the trip ends up taking less subjective time.  Objectively it's a wash and no one really cares this weekend about punctuality per se.

Who they callin a gangster driver runs the road out, abortively takes another micro-detour then thinks better of a u-turn and follwing his phones GPS rather than his whims.  He notes the low levels of fuel in his tank and makes haste for a refill.

While at a Valero, bumps into some Ron Paul folk, a quick barrage of secret handshakes results in a number exchange, Android to Iphone connection made.  Ways parted after an acknowledgement that they are doing some charity work for a family in need at the moment and weren't out and about to go to bars.
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The road blows by, after the fueling occurs, editing out details in the velocity as the sample rate of things and time differs under these conditions.  However infinetessimally small the rate is, it seems almost magnified in perceptibility by the mind.  Reflections on cruelty are over, reflections on travel and commerce are the mode of the day.
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Sliding into 'locks, 9 ish.  Parking lot isn't terribly full, it being Sunday.  Both halves open, on closer inspection, after revealing age to the doorman of course, reveals that the other half is reserved for a christmas party.  The boundary is respected by the character.  He mills around looking for his interest.  Perhaps a number could be had, a bit of conversation about further conversation, a connection.  Alas, none there, lots of people there, just not the hustle-bustle crowd.

One ragged and alone and very drunk girl resides abutting the main door.  In a cloud of drink and cigarette, as she chats disgust through digital networks to someone friend or enemy, who irritates her enough that she breaks propriety with her volume on the call.  Hangs up in a huff, then quickly calls a cab.  Retaining the irritation from the first call for the dispatcher makes me wonder if she's going to be waiting awhile or not.

All the while the character waits, notifies observes and debates.  Getting in before a certain time.  Before the free entry runs out.  It becomes a greater priority, but he is weary of the hunt, the game of finding connections, seeing patterns, just for awhile he'd like to just have a straight time of things.  Ain't gonna happen, except in small doses.  Says hi to a few entries to said xmas party.  Picks up a coin for an entering customer, to which she giggles to her girlfriend at the rudeness of her not saying thank you to him.  He nods at her to meta-acknowledge thanks that was never actually given.  They enter the bar, he leaves.
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Perspective Transitions break the fourth wall.  But I'm doing it anyway because we're all erring in perspective.  Lossy canyons of nerve fiber and meat and bone.  Trying to find our way, eh?
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Nullity as the story forms...

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I slide downtown, listening to Therion on the rajio, smoking some A.S. Blacks, Perique, whiskey dipped cigarettes.   Find my slot to trot in and find close parking.  Sunday's an easy game.  One littly cycle of things, one stupid cunt on the road in a Psion who doesn't want to let me in the way cos she's in a suchahurry that I laugh as I walk by her on the street and she's sliding into a pay lot after I'm already securely parked being slow and steady.  Really dick drivers, people do notice you.  And yes, you suck, so fuck off.
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Slide in past the free cover window but find out it's a dollar less than estimated.  Clubs thriving ish.  Bit light, but steadily people are rolling in. stride up to give my ID, formally, though they know me which seems to put them off.  I'm weird like that sometimes, don't treat me special, I ain't ashamed to go through the process.  I go in, get my hand stamped by beautiful red dress hair and lips,  Tip her what I saved estimating at the door and walk in to the venue.
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More nullity.
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So basically I'm found, in a conversation with Victor, across the cage work security scenery on the West end of the Elysium night club.  We speak of Michael Jackson, whether or not he is dead, why he made certain relationship decisions, whether or not one of the club goers behind us is sad and needing help, and the miscellaneous examples of gods handiwork in skirts that keep your eyes open during conversations like this.  He's impressed I detect his cross at a certain part of the conversation and reveals it.  I get him some water from inside as I'm too broke to get him anything else (like a sprite or something) for various reasons.  He points out the moon, and the night goes so well I'm writing about it in my deviant art journal of all things.  It being well close to closing time by the end of this, we part ways.