1O1. Monochrome. Numbers to the left of me, letters to the right. Mixtures on the thirteenth floor, etched into a bench with a blunted compass. Bloody from skin scratches. Shirt’s all wet. Rain – leaking into a bucket on a cream carpet in a front room at the end of an unwelcoming cul-de-sac, next door to the Welsh woman going through the change. Prowling. Dreads. Shoplifted paperweights – shoplifted especially for you. Wrapped in pink paper. Hidden behind the upstairs futon and captured in a curtained booth. Crushed ice. Scattered with buds, blown. One hundred and twenty minutes later. A cowboy hat, tipped. Loose elbows angled in a doorway beneath a growing-out fringe. Yellow locks. After a gig on a Saturday night. Marshall speakers blocking the hallway. The night we met the band. All curls and lipstick. They were more interesting on stage. Poppers and glass beads and glow in the dark reflections on the shiny side. Bass lines. Polystyrene cups, stacked, fallen, split. Twin-sets twisted. Bottled, boiled ‘shrooms, picked and cooked in the sun. Over coal. The aching… abdominal circles, pushed and stretched. Flares and a tight T-shirt. An album cover – photographed when we weren’t looking. Black and whites in the NME. Blotting paper. Ruffled silk. A steel counter on the walkway over the meat market. I remember that day in the Co-op. The man behind me in the queue; the one I mistook for being crazy – until I saw the news. The rug on the wall, chocolate in the freezer, bird in the kitchen, wrap in hand. Mazzy Star on a sodden Sunday afternoon. Cranes. Tom Waits. Mock orange. Bananas in a paper bag in the corner cupboard. An ambulance. Game pieces traded for the meds of a friend with a tumour. Dog meets cat. Cat claws. Picasso prints and Dali ‘taches. Huntington’s. Cancer. MC5. Seconds. Lame. Falling asleep in a drained bath. When I need a friend… to have a good time.