Meet Joss.  Our last encounter.  Ransomed children.  He filled my empty belly with boiled potatoes and spinach while Jim, the owner, slept on a bench next to us.  Before we said our goodbyes we recalled with admiration our weeks working together as electricians and art handlers.  As a Bad Seeds song gently filled the air of the vacant West End curry shop we smiled and in unison understood the importance of fidelity and the dangers that accompany inconstancy.  He would later message me from France to explain to me the difference between chess and table tennis.

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Morning had broken and with it my bodily threshold and immune system.  The smell of the toxins being violently expelled from my body permeated the Neil family room, burned my nose and shook me from the depths and wicked hold of a drug induced dance party where a dark haired woman was spitting down my throat while we all paraded about topless showering in sticky shots of Cafe Patron, taking turns hopping along the marble tabletops shouting Madonna lyrics at one another like territorial savages...to this day I'm not 100% sure it was actually a dream.  

Joss was standing above me asking if I was coming and I quickly put on the nearest pair of trousers I could find. Vincent was curled beneath a red blanket on the love-seat and I remember looking down and noticing a bead of sweat on Blackmore's forehead and thinking he must finally be getting over the flu.  I snatched a red umbrella from outside the door and made my way out into the mist.  The clouds of error were beginning to form and we were running late.  When I woke again I was on the top rung of a 15ft ladder with a spool of wire in my hands and Neil Young playing in my head.