microcosm of a relationship in an evening
Find the right tunes and the right time, check the reaction and uplift. Not too hard really, but need the material.
Anything goes baby, try and read this. Love you if you can.

Don't do it again.
The first thing that comes to mind. Cooking inside you. Don't know who I'm talking about ?
It's a secret. Tell me. No. Oh, tell me. No, it's me stuff. Tell me. No. And a shake of the head. Slight turn away. Microcosm of a relationship in an evening. Can't be doing with that.

Go for new.
Interesting the first thing that comes to mind.
So many things to do and people to be around. Uplift, shake off, shake down, and hide from things. Well, nearly perfect.

Scrabble with extra letters. Politics and hip-hop, who wins, gradual turn the TV down, brighten, you're OK.

South westerly winds, bring associations taking a whole bunch of photos to scan, send nice memories to nice people, remind how you came to here, been a while now.
Something, and then the next thing.

Fucking proud of that, and you should be, my brother. Associations, bootleg version. Z12 records.

Change colour, shed a skin; feel the first real heat and the diary's a diary, but I'll double bluff with a story bit, maybe not.

Listen to how still the sky is, perfect for a moment, in perfect balance. Such a difference to drum n' bass n' happy Mondays chaotic alcohol caned ketamin binge with grilled piña with cinnamon and cointreau.
Add steel drums and a sprikling of coconut. All saints road come early this year round the clichés, trouble on vinyl and Western Union transfer. Not a game, just inelegant.

I'm talking to you, knock knock. The television screen with the glassy thump. Are you in there ? It was late night spliff snooze with lots of reeferences today, must be The Observer.

The world linked together with instant action and reaction from Z12 studios right now. Not on that one, but third on the more harrowing local news; destructive mischief. The sort of story the twenty eight year old news presenter could see her friends chatting about in the crew commandeered South bank bar, disrupting the unimaginatively bleak tales of fires, council subsidies and gangland murder.

The alternative.
Was it really an alternative at all ?

Everybody was fucked up, why Thomas especially, now he was putting number one number one.
And would get to number one, get artistic recognition of genius of the not so hopefully insane variety of media exploits.
Go for it! And don't be shy of those exclamation marks, not to three, and keep thinking there's other people like this. I can show them with a subtle marketing sleight of hand and Egyptian barter.
No spooky Tutenkamun. Exorcised.

And that was that.
Could you do that ?

A fucking cliffhanger with no cliff...