Swarms of people gather outside the Hotel de Ver each Saturday evening. A whole circus-full, every dreamer made up from head to toe in the best that can be afforded, the best that cannot be afforded, everything. No one's a miser on a night that will change lives.

Inside, the concierge nods to the waitress -- out of habit, not because she doesn't already know every thought that crosses his mind -- and presses the large black button on his desk that will unlock the ornate oak doors. In the instant before the army bursts through the gates, he closes his eyes and breathes in the emotion, the sweat, the anticipation. Then he opens his eyes and closes himself up, ready for the tumult.

There is a jarring clash as the neon people smash into the deep jewel-toned lobby, but they pick themselves back up and persevere towards the dark oak desk. The concierge stares into the mess of diamonds and pearls, feathers and tulle. He sees; he does not dare think.

Love, hate, jealousy, money, fancy cars, spilled drinks on dresses, hugs, slaps, tears. They blow around the room like shards of paper prompted by a ceiling fan, but there isn't one. Just a chandelier, almost jingling. A woman in what appears to be a wedding dress, probably her grandmother's, judging from the style, catches the concierge's eye first. Images flash between them, a violin, a street corner, her hands reaching out, the cleaner hands recoiling. What a life she gave up for passion! She elbows her way through the mob to table number seven in the dining hall and he records her placement. Her room for the night will be number thirty-four. This entire transaction unfolds in under a second and in utter silence. In fact, the hotel itself is so silent, despite the crowded bodies, yet so loud, that the newcomers can hardly breathe.

It's rare for someone to stand in front of the concierge whose mind isn't instantly bared, but one of the abnormalities does show up tonight, and despite how easy it would be to break past the barriers, it isn't much worth bothering with. Men like him are all the same, living in boxes. Boxes that tend to look suspiciously like mansions, but same difference, really. The concierge places this man and all his blockades at table seven with the woman with the wedding dress and too many feelings. Hopefully they'll find a happy medium. The key for room number twenty-three clinks against a few coins in the man's pocket.

For dinner the guests are served whatever they wish. At first they enjoy the effortless banter they share with their table-mates, but when they go deeper they find themselves drowning. Excuses are made -- politely, of course, but fooling no one -- and guests leave their tables to explore this madhouse so they can tell tall tales to their friends, as promised. The untouched food is fed to the rats behind the kitchen.

The smaller back ballroom of the hotel is full of old men and women sitting in front of pianos, easels, typewriters, frozen to states of immobility, simply letting their emotions and ideas rip away from them and pulse around the room in each other's minds. People wander by frequently, and about one in every fifty stays to join the chorus of genius. The rest snort as they saunter away. Their disgusted noises roughly translate to By golly, even I've thought of that!

After staring at their dinner or refreshing themselves in their suites, the guests gather in the main ballroom of the hotel for the dance. They start off with a light waltz, but as the music picks up they begin to glance around the room nervously. They wish the music were a little louder, so they didn't have to hear what they really came to hear in the first place. Their thoughts are jumping from person to person like electricity, and before long it all short circuits and violent men and impassioned women are dashing around the room, ardently kicking, shoving, hugging, kissing, punching, clutching, strangling, shocking one another for feelings that belonged to someone else to begin with, but have been caught by their possessor like the common cold.

The concierge stares blankly at the doors as he presses the black button again and the clicks of their locks echo in the quiet, empty lobby. Many enter through those doors, but no one ever leaves by them. Most don't last the night, but timidly sneak out of low windows or the back door in the kitchen sometime before dawn. The vibrant colors run down the hill behind the Hotel de Ver like water droplets down richly stained tissue paper, fading further and further into the night.