Page 68 of Stalker's Toy

Emma's eyes light up. "Oh, the possibilities are endless! We could create these claustrophobic spaces, force people to confront their fears..."

As they brainstorm ideas, I feel a mix of excitement and fear.

Their enthusiasm is infectious, but I can't shake the feeling that we're playing with fire.

Henrik's vision is dangerous, pushing boundaries that perhaps shouldn't be pushed.

But isn't that what art is supposed to do?

Challenge us, make us uncomfortable, force us to confront the parts of ourselves we'd rather ignore?

I take another sip of my drink, letting the alcohol quiet the doubts swirling in my mind.

This is what I signed up for, after all.

A chance to be part of something groundbreaking, to push my art to new limits.

As the night wears on, our conversation becomes more animated.

We sketch out rough ideas on napkins, our excitement building with each new concept.

The alcohol flows freely, loosening our inhibitions and fueling our creativity.

At some point, Larsa joins us, adding her own unique perspective to the mix.

Her enthusiasm is contagious, and I find myself swept up in the creative energy.

"What if we created a room that plays with sensory deprivation?" Larsa suggests, her eyes gleaming. "Pitch black, with just occasional flashes of light and sound. Really disorient people, make them confront their own minds."

James snaps his fingers. "Yes! And we could have sculptures that you can only fully experience through touch. Force people to engage with the art in a completely different way."

Emma nods excitedly. "And I could do a series of graffiti that change under different lighting conditions. Reveal hidden images and messages."

As they continue to build on each other's ideas, I feel a spark of genuine excitement.

This is what I love about art—the collaborative energy, the way ideas can grow and evolve when shared.

For a moment, I allow myself to forget about the darkness that usually clouds my mind.

To just be present in this moment, surrounded by fellow artists who understand the drive to create, to express, to challenge.

But as the night wears on and the alcohol continues to flow, I feel the familiar tendrils of anxiety creeping back in.

The bar seems too loud suddenly, the press of bodies too close.

I need air, need space to breathe.

I excuse myself, stumbling slightly as I make my way to the exit.

The cool night air hits me like a slap, and I lean against the brick wall, taking deep breaths.

The world spins slightly, and I realize I've had more to drink than I intended.

But the alcohol has dulled the ever-present pain, the constant replay of that night in my mind.

For once, the memories feel distant, hazy.

Larsa appears beside me, her auburn hair glowing under the streetlights.

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