85

"But I'm not done yet" (Minuit). Midnight. The rain was said to lash againt the window like a Mancunican charwoman throwing her dregs out on the flags. I was dreaming of waves looking at the red light of the transitor radio floating like a buoy in the room's dark ocean. The concert programme was on softly playing a string concerto that tightened all the nerves down my back--just to be sure that you're sleeping alone--Beckett's Molloy on the bedside table laughing at me like an unlucky deal. The concerto sounds like Minuit breaks: linear progression was always a dream of the jingle when we're all really spinning around in eliptical loops coming back to same spot in the path but a little older for the journey. We're all looking for a place to defect to away from all our own defections. But we find ourselves back in the same place, a little older, not quite done yet. Just to be sure.