Gone

I want to take someone’s hand and actually leave. Next flight, next ship, next city where nobody knows us. Find a club at 2 AM playing something the rest of the world hasn’t heard yet, dance until sunrise comes over water, until you genuinely believe you’re never going back. Because there’s no reason to. Nobody’s waiting.

That’s the whole fantasy. Not about travel or tourism. It’s about reaching that place where you can stop pretending the life you left behind matters. You’re just gone, and you don’t care, and someone else is gone with you. The same mechanism works in music—a good song gives you three and a half minutes where nothing exists except sound and movement. The permission to stop thinking. The exact same permission.

But you always come back. You wake up. The feeling fades. What lingers is that you believed it for a moment, that vanishing was actually possible, that the right song or the right companion could make you disappear completely. Maybe next time. Maybe the next song.