“We know where we’re going…”
We do? Thank fuck for that, I feel better already.
Sometimes you don’t want screeching falsetto or some guy shouting at you about the injustices of babylon first thing in the morning. But instrumental dub won’t help to remove the internal monologue of self-loathing, because you need a human voice to connect with. Ouch.
How much did I have to drink last night anyway? At least we managed to get our act together to have some supplies laid on – nothing worse than waking up to an empty fridge with a raging hangover. Age brings some foresight at least. Marmite bagels and ginger beer and the sounds of the Revolutionaries at Channel One and Skin and Bones at Randys.
One of those CDs that comes into its own now and again. Part of the armoury which won’t kill a soundboy but will heal the most wounded souljahs instead. Look through the booklet and fantasise about having some of those beat up seven inches they’ve put in there. Look outside at another grey day. See a man’s face, but you never know his headache.
Time for some coffee, kettle on to the sounds of Sly Dunbar’s rimshots echoing into infinity. Later on I’ll venture outside. Not yet, though.