Mostly you want to get out of here . . . because it's cold and smoky and loud. There are people here you like, but you didn't come with them. You came with dumb-ass cretins from school or work or wherever and that's who you'll be leaving with. Mostly you want to get out of here, but you know you'll be more bored than this wherever you go. You think, "Out of the frying pan, into the fire," but it's more like out of the filthy fridge into the dirty snow. At least this is somewhere. Or maybe it's not. Maybe it's nowhere---on purpose. If the cops knew this was here, they'd shut it down. make us give the electricity back, and send everybody away from this tolerable nowhere to deadly dull, terminally boring somewheres elsewhere.
You remember this nowhere forty years after the fact. The somewheres elsewhere were forgotten the next morning, if not before. The "Man" strives, it seems, to keep anything memorable from ever happening. Don't wake the sardines.