By T.W. WORN — It is a crisp Autumn night in 2018, and turbulent psychedelic rays of light bounce above the sweating crowd of a busy bar on a busy night. The thumping bass of the speakers leaks onto the ground, the patrons bobbing in the rhythm as they wade through fellow patrons to the bar. I am sitting, in a suit, next to my friends. The sound of laughter slinks through my ears, echoes in my head, and pours out my mouth along with the rest of the group. The music in the bar shifts in tone, no longer a grooving anthem of eternal adolescence. It is slow and sinister. The cold frequency of a pipe organ. I look over to the DJ, confused. They say something about how he has finally arrived for us, and laughs. I tilt my head in confusion.