off. on. off. slap. on again.
if you want to take it all the way back then you might as well be stumbling around the city with a three-quarter length mac, 15 camels and spikes in the front then grope your way along the arse end of town until you can smell the toilets and the sweat congealing on the walls. you can be sick just there. and then get him to look after your pint while you flail around like a halfwit with your eyes closed mouthing the words like you wrote them which you didn’t but you did in your head even if you can’t even hear them because they’re shouting them like, really loud, like when your ears were bleeding the other week when they did requiem. I know, just fall over and lie on the floor. it worked last week. what’s that? pardon? I dunno, what is it? it smells funny, go on, smell it. jeeeesus! I can’t breath! why’s my heart doing that?
never saw any of that stuff again but realised i dint know nuffin so got on with collapsing by the river and then tramping 2 miles without a shirt on into someone’s bedroom where they thought you, at least, would understand why visage were actually like, you know, genius. except you didn’t talk like that. in fact you didn’t say anything at all for 10 years and communicated through 4-tracks and scrabble which was a lengthy, but obviously, most profound process. no. it was rubbish. there’s the river. it’s all dark.