Three glasses deep, the room begins to breathe in neon.

"L’Intemporelle" walks in first - charming, ageless, with a bassline smile and hands full of light. She doesn’t speak, just pulls you toward the dancefloor, where time itself seems to slip off its watch and spin around your ankles.

Then comes the night proper, the "Serenade for Alcohol". It’s not a hymn and not a warning, but a crooked love song - one that leans too close, whispering promises into your ear before stumbling into laughter. The synths stretch like blurred streetlights seen through tears or champagne bubbles, and you can’t tell whether you’re dissolving into joy or just into yourself.

By the time you reach "Afters at Serge’s", dawn has begun its slow negotiation. The beats are softer now, coated in psychedelic glitter, like smoke curling lazily above a table littered with half-empty glasses and the ghosts of stories no one quite remembers. Comforting voices hum like friends you’ll never meet again, yet somehow you already miss them.

This isn’t just a “weekend package”. It’s the anatomy of excess: the sparkle, the stumble, the afterglow. A triptych painted with both glowstick ink and hangover gray. Of Norway aren’t moralizing; they’re simply showing you the room, the bottle, the laughter, the silence that follows.

Raise your glass, or don’t. Either way, the serenade will play.