It's approaching two in inner-city Bath and I'm about to turn off the wholly inappropriate Hot Hot Heat album and find something the stinks of slut-cathedrals and shadows. Ideally Tricky, but anything dub-sexy will do me. Or Goth. I could really do with wearing some Nick Cave right now.

Actually, I've just been distracted by a loathsome piece of Mind-death Emerson's linked to, but I'll go in a second.

There. That's better.

Pre-Millennium Tension's dull and dulling bass-throb sounds, right now, exactly like the noises that pulse around the fluid-guts of a bluefly as it circles around a bare-lightbulb. Insectoid's the word, all wrong-faced and compound eyes. It's music that always existed for me for these hours when the logical thing to do is to slump into something sedentary or sexual or both, but you just can't slow down enough to even think of that. Bad-drug-set lighting. Obssessive. Dope-paranoia and speed psychosis. Sounds smeared across the speakers - like a womb rotting around a child. Still rocking, eyes open and aware, hard like a glock and soft like an exit wound.

Was reading Ian Pennman's old review of Maxinquaye, just because I wanted something to help me pick at the fresh scar of what I had to hand in to CTCL for Tricky's new one. Comparing it to what I had to hand in is one way to draw the necessary blood. And while I know one album was a greater magnitude than the other, it's really no excuse for what I had to do. I haven't written something I simply can't bring myself to re-read for a long time now, and It's the worst feeling in the world.

Or thereabouts.

As we move onto the fading ghost of a modern urban-blues of "She Makes Me Wanna Die", let's change topic to what I orginally wanted to talk about when I sat down in front of this beautiful PC of mine: the guy who collapsed on our doorstep. Except there's nothing really to talk about. Central Bath and a guy just curled up on the step with a bottle of pills that may or may not have put in the position. Go down. Throw a blanket over him. Wait for the Ambulance arrive. Get out the way and let the people do their job.

Bit of dialogue between the Beat-cop and the Paramedic: "You know him?" "He is known to us". As natural and as ominous as a sunrise.

And that's it. Just life being lived.

Now I'm thinking.

Thinking that the RSI in my right arm makes the lower Ulna feel like a bar of cooling iron, flecked in black, wreathed in smoke.

Thinking about humanity as angler-fish lights, lures on the end of giant pan-dimensional beasts.

Thinking about stopping.