In the swirling haze of the basement, where time melted into sound and shadows danced along the walls, we drifted between reality and something more cosmic.
The basement was a world of its own, dimly lit by the soft glow of a lava lamp and the flickering of a half-burned candle on the table.
The air hung heavy with smoke, a mix of cheap incense and something more illicit, curling lazily toward the ceiling as The Dark Side of the Moon spun on the turntable. The music pulsed through battered speakers, vibrating in the chests of the half-dozen teenagers sprawled across secondhand couches and bean bags.
Someone let out a laugh—sharp, sudden—at a joke that had already been forgotten, while another sat cross-legged on the shag carpet, eyes locked on the swirling patterns of a blacklight poster, lost in the depths of some cosmic thought.
Time stretched and blurred, the world outside irrelevant, as the basement wrapped its occupants in a hazy cocoon of sound, smoke, and fleeting youth.
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