See, on one hand, there's the story possibilities you could pluck from a sea of neon-drenched cityscapes with terrible weather. Robots dreaming they're human, humans dreaming they're robots; hell, you might even slip in an old-fashioned meditation on what any of those terms even mean, if you were philosophically inclined.

Which you very well might be, but consider the alternative: The sheer, white-hot thrill of adrenaline still ripping through your veins after a motorcycle ride through steel canyons. The electric white-hot sin that eclipses it, being bent over said motorcycle with ruined pants and hands curling hard around your hands, hips, and throat in the cloud of steam and neon off the shoulder of an endless highway. Those spires of glass lit up with a million lives that might intersect with your own, if they looked out from them, with eyes wide at the sight of you getting manhandled into a mess so far below.

It's an aesthetic, after all, style in a differnet world from substance, pulsing neon slamming into your senses and solid heat stretching you open and slamming into you from behind. You don't know me, and maybe you've known me for years - it's that type of city, the backstory of how we met faded into a set-piece showdown between my fist and your hair, my hips and your ass thrust back for the taking.

Maybe there's steel in the grip on your hips. Maybe it only feels that way.

Maybe you'll find yourself slumped in some tiny room somewhere after this, cheek on my chest and my jacket round your shoulders, half-eaten noodles somewhere on the table beyond the bedroom. Maybe this is all there is, the blunt heat of human contact writ large in bared teeth and short, hard thrusts that melt the world into streaks around you. The sky needs only to be the color of sex for it to make you feel alive, after all.

You've seen things some people wouldn't believe. Nothing is real and everything is for sale, but some things, even here, are genuine. The need to sidestep the weight of thought, the urge to just grit your teeth and feel the electric wind. The hunger to be fucked, and perhaps, just maybe, for the glare outside the window to not matter in a warm rest afterward.

There's more to it all. More than the feeling of being mounted in the glare of lights and shot full of heat with a familiar stranger's hands in your hair.

But wouldn't you rather embrace the style for a night?

Written in large part to exorcise the absolute spiral that's one of my favorite bands' new music has sent me into.

That, and there's something philosophically appropriate about narrowing big questions into base desires with the genre, deep in the heart of it all.

There are plenty more prompts in my post history, but be warned - there's a lot of oddly vanilla-tinged roughness and more than a dash of romance in there.