Between 3 and 6 o' clock after the nightclubs shut and the night tourists totter to their warm homes, the inhabitants of these after hours bathe in the rays of their Neon King.

They are the heavy rocks left by the tide, the afterthoughts, the cheaters, the veterans, the homeless, the addicts, the alcoholics, the night workers. All drifting in bubbles through the damp dark, ignoring the temptations of the glossy floor, and warming themselves by air vents that smell of burnt batter and grease. They are the survivors of the deep night.

But to stay is to be duped. An artificial king is a conman at best despite how colourful is his crown.

A man bends over a green bin like a facet, hurling up his final meal in spluttering shudders, emptying his tank for more bitter waters.

A woman wrapped in an orange sleeping bag in her new spot, keeping an eye on the bored drunk men who prowl the streets.

A body of a man in an alley, with drooling frowns all over his torso, in a puddle of his own red saliva.

A plastic blue scooter melted into the grass in a park, like playdough tacked to a carpet, impossible to remove from the fabric of the night.

All sacrifices.

All fuel for the dazzling splendor of the Neon King.

© Eva Irvine