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They stood under a pale green bulb, their own glowing world in a violet Manhattan skyline. Washed in new waves of art and neon reverb, topped with a Basquiat crown. They danced in Manchester, where every day felt like Sunday, and every brick alley made of acid-washed stars from the Cosmos. They were wanderers still. They went wherever the synth would take them, anywhere but mainstream, and found utopia. Pressed together in a crowd of leather and lace, dancing under a moonlit halo at the edge of the stage, in the velvety depths of the underground.