Twelve eyes fallen shut against the star-pricked night. Sixty fingers loosely clutching sheets and clothes and hypodermic needles. Six pulses, throbbing slowly under sweat-dampened skin.

Three on the double bed. Powdery bedsheets tangled between their legs, hair spreading across the pillows in a perfect rainbow: crimson, black, platinum. Breathing almost in unison, holding each other. Intimate. A group: exclusive.

"Come on, come on!"

"Slower, calmer, oh God…"

"Oh shit…Yes. Wh- Oh God. My inhaler-"

"I took it from your bag, here…"

"Smell this."

"Oh shit, this stuff burns."

One on the floor by the bed. Mascara-thick eyelashes fluttering, pale limbs restless. This one sleeps lightly, perhaps – a worrier, a thinker, an intellectual.

"Where are you going?"

"Floor. By the bed."

"There's another bed, you do realise?"

"But the others-"

"They won't let you."

Two in the next room, on a single bed. Arms slung casually over one another, peacefully narcotized. Bleached blond versus jet black, waif-like versus sensuously curvy, exotic opposites but somehow a perfect pair.

"I love you."

"I know. Shut up and take this."

"I can't get a vein."

"You're such a fucktard. I love you, too."

It's their house. It's full of dirty mugs in the sink and the spiritual residue of a hundred acid trips, but it's their house. Sometimes they bring a hundred intruders home, who have loaded needles that piece and scream and fuck. Sometimes they come back alone with each other, dancing in the blue neon that streams through the blinds because they live opposite a strip joint.

Bodies shift and stir and turn over to go back to sleep. The fan hums lowly in the background; the heat makes the air thick. Twelve lungs expand and contract, exhaling mint and ethanol and vapour. Drugs course in veins and arteries and capillaries. Emotions paint themselves into dreams. Three in the double bed, one on the floor, two in the next room.

Six.