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A prophecy came true, like Prince had told us, when we partied like its 1999. Because Y2K was coming, and the world might end, so we danced, waiting for short circuits and blackened grids, when the lights would go out in London, then Germany, and Tokyo, like candles in the wind, and the globe would go dark. We were on the edge of a century, so we raved in blazing strobes. It was the scent of wild abandon. Broken beats found us and soul healed us. Doc Martens held us to the ground. And like the fallen straps of a champagne slip dress, we were not that innocent, but we would be notorious.