It was hard to pinpoint when exactly when we lost our innocence in those early days of Dhaka. There was something magical in the air of the filthy streets, the broken down buildings and the swarms of sweaty bodies rushing around us. The magic electrified us, filled our porous teenage brains with thoughts as depraved and filthy as the city that they came from. The heat and spices and odors and colors coalesced into a spinning, reeling vortex that injected megawatts of energy into our chaste veins that electrified our nerve endings to the point where we verged on the edge of total destruction at any moment. Wild-eyed,we pursued sex, drugs and EDM with a voracious, insatiable appetite fueled by hormones and ganja and monsoon storms. In the years following, as we escaped the place one by one, we searched endlessly, longingly for the same thrills. We searched in foreign street lamps and Wal-Mart parking lots and sprawling megacities for the same magic but were left burnt out, dejected, hopeless. In the later years, we could never recreate the magic, although we clutched for it desperately as a shivering heroin addict. In those later years, we could never find that magic, that magic which was painted in every crevice of those early days of Dhaka.

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