Driving slanty across the huddled grime roofs of James Street; driving smudge faced harpies into Iceland or Mecca or The Big Breakfast on Albert Road; forcing a way through every rotted sash and botched damp-course; forcing every neon coat and fag smoke grizzled muzzle into snack hut and works van; beating down against the shark's teeth where the river churns the Sound; beating down the will to live of every sick-note in the flats; hosing down this stinking town. At least that's how I imagine it; and I doubt very much I'm wrong. Very much indeed. But I stray. I bore you with what might be instead of what is. Yes, what is probably would be a more appropriate place to begin.

I know it's raining because even from down here I can hear it. And it's beautiful. It's the distant roar from the terraces. A million fingers drumming on the ground. It's like being in the belly of a whale. And I can predict, with what I feel is some degree of accuracy, exactly what's going on up there. Because till very recently I was part of it all myself. Part of all that anonymity. Surrounded and alone. And now I'm dead.