Dum vivimus vivamus

After the tone sounds—past Ari’s nudge, adjusting his own, “Set your tiara to default, so we see the same things”—Max emerges from the mesh-shrouded performers’ catwalk into the brighter, blue-lit darkness of the public hallway, to peer into the graffiti room, its walls ghostly with last night’s writing, mostly drunk spelling spiraling in lust or love—Suk me Kevvin! Julio mi Amor, Britta + Susan endlessly—mixed with the occasional cryptic or funny or pithy notation, All vision is relative, dance till U can’t!! Reality is a Verb. Anyone logged in can read them, anyone present or with a streaming pass can add their own, as Max does now, one-finger writing in stark neon white, Dum vivimus vivamus and “‘While we live,’” he translates to Ari, “‘let us live.’ It’s from Epicurus.”

“What?”

“It’s Latin.”

“You speak Latin?”

“No one speaks Latin,” as beyond Max’s shoulder a new tag flares into life, Do the Hokey Pokey, as green as phosphorescence in some underwater cave, what the fuck is the hokey pokey? and “Want a drink to start?” Ari steering him to the nearest bar station, a half-circle of steel stools inside a curved skyline panorama that morphs from Berlin to New York to Nairobi to Montréal to the Factory logo, then back to Berlin, and “Champagne,” Ari says to the gangly bartender. “But not that fake Clicquot. Gold label,” and the bartender nods, the bubbles changing in the pour to minute golden fireworks, the effect so silly and charming that even Max has to smile. The first floor DJ starts his set with a massive industrial thump, a skitter of static, a cawing cry, “Dark Factory, let’s worrrrrk!” and “Let’s go,” Ari says, tossing back his champagne.

“Let’s find those seams.”

– from DARK FACTORY by KATHE KOJA