A city that’s so open about it’s consumerism, a bastion of capitalism in a darker America, who turns the other cheek without actually giving it, burnt by the desert sun, eyes semi-closed, the light so intense, as if it doesn’t want to see what’s happening in it’s streets.
A city filled with motels, the expiry date of it’s inhabitants close to 48 hours, and the others so sleepy due to the heat, too numb to get up and crawl to where the horizon ends.
A city where old emperors bow before their new masters, holders of modern power, in orgiastic feasts celebrating the new culture, honoring gods made out of paper and flesh, who fly around the surrounding dunes during the night.
A city full of palaces, with towers in ivory and ebony, where everything is made with maximum speed, like taking out a band aid, before the expiry date comes, and the nauseating smell fills the nostrils and the old wounds become infected, by being exposed for so long to the putrid air currents that flow from the desert.
A city filled with light and color, especially conceived to distract it’s inhabitants, attracting them with beautifully designed patterns, in marble and gold, like unsuspecting fishes towards the open jaws of a colored octopus, shining outside, darkened inside.
A city filled with entertainment, of every nature, always ready to submit to the most intimate of human desires, sucking him dry, condemning him to roam it’s bowels in search of lost sensations, that he will never experience again.
A city full with resident ghosts, and ghostly figures who pass, without leaving a visible trail, only the smell of expensive perfume hovering in the air, numbing the senses of those condemned to wander the sidewalks. A city sleeping on top of human vices, where every excessive desire is permitted, and looked upon with approving and shining eyes, created to serve the brave enough to think they can tame it.
A city that never sleeps, sleeping being for the weak, where wishes don’t have a timestamp, creating perpetual movement, like a pendulum that never strikes midnight, by being somewhat crooked, forcing itself to jump from day to day, without ever seeing time pass.
A city filled with dreams, made nightmares, created by nurturing hands, made claws, wrapped in sweet pink cotton candy, made fire and smoke, burning with the desert heat.
A city made paradise, brightened by the white elephants lying there, towards where everyone goes, from where everyone escapes, the important thing being to never look back, whatever the direction of the trip.
And despite all, Vegas is, and always will be, just an outpost in the middle of the desert.