Chase The Compass


Picture this.

You’re in Berghain, the German capital’s most infamous dance den, blissfully two stepping to the ebb and flow of a perfectly pulsating Techno beat. After sweating out the same water volume as the tepid, reality-hardening bath you’ll be having when you eventually get home, you decided to exit the club, fervently vowing never to return (until next week.) As your slowly simmering and soon-to-be apocalyptic hangover starts to take hold, you congratulate yourself on the truly stellar party effort you’ve put in, safe in the deluded assumption that the impending comedown “won’t even be that bad.” Putting trust in your now thoroughly beer-soaked sneakers, you casually stride down the bleak, industrial thoroughfare that flanks Berghain’s exit route, the crunch of sand under foot soundtracking your steps. You’re tired but jovial, scattered by triumphant, you’re killing it and nothing (save Xanax) can bring you down. When suddenly, out of…

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