We are somewhere around Detroit on the edge of the jazz scene when the psychedelic macrodose begins to take hold. Tupac Shakur asks Tim Roth something like “ever felt your luck’s running out” and suddenly a friend beside me thrashes in his seat and the cinema’s full of people staring at us, all stink-eyes and muttering, even as the movie is racing off the screen about a hundred miles an hour with the lights flashing. And a voice screams, “This is happening!”
Then it’s quiet again. My buddy has curled forward to claw at his jeans. “It’s all real,” he hisses, staring at a spumy sea of spilled popcorn
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