Beings called “rave ghosts” exist in London. It’s a well known story that there’s a ghost sitting in the very front seat on the second floor of a bus in London. The ghost is someone that can only be seen by those who go out to a club alone and dance while worrying about their bank balance, drink two pints of beer, and stay until the music stops. After everyone has left the silent club, I wait at the bus stop a bit further away, frozen waiting for a delayed bus. I watch everyone else from the corner of my eye while they smoke and chat and call Ubers home. The ghost sometimes rides the bus that I boarded in a state of disappointment and intoxication, wondering what in the world I am doing in this city. The rave ghost smells like piss. The rave ghost grits its teeth from too much ecstasy. The rave ghost’s ears are slightly pointed. I see my dirty face, gaunt and dirty from too much dancing all night long, reflected in the glass of the bus like a ghost. Through that reflected glass, I sometimes see the rave ghost.