Nothing Ever Happens Here--Conor M

The lyric blurred from a pair of cheap speakers while blurs of activity surrounded the old friends that were surrounded by more blurs and more friends.
Genny red eye cans were the most common accessory at the particular party. They were only punctuated by the occasional beer whose name was totally unfamiliar, harder to drink, cost more, and told you what it tasted like.
Fancy!
With each turn to listen to a new story or to an old story turned new, colors bled together.
Browns to blacks to greens to reds to yellows to blues and ultimately to vision engulfed in porcelain - Which is eventually smeared with the cathartic but entropic colors of whatever was sitting in your stomach for the past six hours.
If only the music was different. If only he/she wasn’t here. If only I hadn’t barfed. All were common excuses for a lack of hedonistic enthusiasm. They were also the spark that drove some to try to make something happen. Once the intrepid trickled out first, it started a chain reaction.
The moment the number of people became manageable, and the music took on a melancholy character with a hoppy bitterness, the few, the proud, the maudlin remained and asked questions such as:
What would this be like if the dead were still with us?