Eventually, it does become quiet. The lights are still flashing, the whistles still blowing, the bells still rattling. But for the better part, they have the plush and glitter to themselves. Six o’clock in the morning. Daylight is seeping in and, like a tired entertainer staring into his whiskey at an empty bar, the city for once shows its real face. Some face. Who knows what’s real in a place built not to be.

Outside, the air is cool. Real, fresh cool, not the electric cold constantly spun around inside. The roads are empty, the sidewalks deserted. Undisturbed, the traffic lights on the intersection perform their proud red, green, and orange dance. If you listen very closely, you can make out its rhythm tapped by eager relays in an old cast-iron box by the roadside.

And birds. However lost a place may be in human ambitions, there is a always a small crack of nature at six o’clock in the morning.

I throw my bag in the boot of the car and drive off.

Leaving Las Vegas.