His name was Sam

When you first make your way past the towering bouncers guarding the entrance to the Labyrinth Nightclub, you can't help but wonder who came up with the name of the place. He seemed to have hit the nail on the head. The stark red stretches flanking the dimly lit serpentine staircase on either side has an almost hypnotic effect on you. With every forward step, you feel uneasy, but the curiosity of what lies ahead prevents you from turning back. It sucks you in. The thumping in the distance has a seductive charm that numbs all your senses till your mind gets all fuzzy. You just keep walking. On and forward. And suddenly the crammed corridor opens up into a space teeming with people jumping up and down with hands held in the air. In some sort of frenzy. The thumping is so loud now that you can't hear yourself think. A million heartbeats. A million pulses. All beating in unison. A blur of myriad faces. A thousand tired souls all wanting to forget the stresses of the day and drown themselves in the noise, in the swarm of flailing limbs, in the web of unruly hair. And if you somehow still don't get lost in the haze of flickering lights and alcohol-laden breath, you'll notice a man sitting by himself at the bar. Alone. Far from the madding crowd.

The man was about thirty five. The crisp white shirt on his back, the whiff of expensive cologne as you walked past him and the glass of champagne in his hand told you that he was a man of considerable means. Probably one of those men who climb the corporate ladder so quickly that it makes your head spin. The kind of man that everyone wants a piece of and women can't have enough of. The kind of man  who makes you sick with envy. But his tired eyes told a different story. It told the story of a man who hadn't slept in days. A man who had a million friends but was yet alone. A man longing for some meaning. Some peace. Some love.

His name was Sam.