The sky is a dark dark purple, like the skin of a grape when you hold it against the light. I see no stars. My head feels clogged; crammed, crowded, impatient thoughts. 

The floor is full of party hats that have been cast away. The paper cups flock together in the corner. The music is scratchy and distant but everyone taps their feet along anyway. There's a guitar and there's occasional off-key singing. There are sticky fingers and ketchup stains. There are noisy whistles that unfurl at every chance available. 

Around me people are speaking in swaying, tear laced voices. They are reminiscing about some part of their lives that has gone away, leaving behind bitterness in a bottle. There's always something that sets it off - a song, a word, a mention of a place where feelings remain strewn, battered amidst the grass. They lie back facing the sky, watching the aeroplanes take off, wondering if they can bring back all that they miss in the capacity of this moment. They wonder whether they will miss this tomorrow, when their senses are no longer foggy and their self esteem has stopped faltering. 

The words start petering off and the stories become more vague. Eventually, there is a audible silence as people start to nod off, their mouths slightly open and their heads at painful angles. 

We stand, only a few of us, holding onto the railing of the roof and listening to music that finds our thoughts and battles them.

We watch the houses in the distance slowly light up, yellow rectangles mushrooming in the dark. 

There's a raw feeling of being awake at a time like this, when your thoughts seem insignificant and your worries worthless.