Pocketful of Funk (Lost at the Party)

The air is thick with laughter and spilled rhythm, a maze of swaying silhouettes and half-remembered names. You fumble through the crowd, your pockets stuffed with stray moments—a crumpled joke, a stranger’s number, the last echo of a bassline that slithered into the walls. The night stretches like a slow-motion film reel, each frame sticky with confessions whispered too close to the DJ’s speakers. You’re not sure whose house this is, but the funk has claimed you—its pulse in your shoes, its sweat on your collar, its ghost grinning back from the bathroom mirror. Lost? Maybe. But the party’s still humming in your veins.