...a scottish june, but the rain's stopped for now...turns out the sky can be blue, whipped white clouds, spectral trails...the cross of st andrew and the damp burn of saltires hang hungover morning from the lamposts in the street...the quiet street, the quiet saturday suburb blub...but broken scattershot bursts - sharp blackboard ruptures - by the kid magpie and his searching mother: nature always finds a way, doesn't it?...two cups of coffee, a shot of morphine, and a microdose of mushroom...eating junk trash potato crunch to help the tick meet the tock...i'm ready to be haunted...Gregory's sound here - a lone track, shadow slipping, curdling in the grey light of living, ready to fall...is a blank virgin (i know nothing of her catalogue, nothing of her reason)...but it's enveloping like pirate fog, all drone echoes & anguish...the cheap heartbeat rhythm foundation, the muffled cane strikes the floor...my head is filling with a smoke machine soul...a resignation in the quest...but a yearning still...scratches on the lid...a daily philosophy that's just like the best of us...