When you sit down in front of a computer at what appears to be 3:34am (although I can see the sun coming up outside, computers lie.), the first and last thing you would avoid is Jim Carey. The fact that Jim Carey is dressed as Tom Cruise proves only to intensify my distrust in anything holy and logical. What was grasped so briefly by the many, and everlasting by the few, was the belief that music would consume anything it felt and mend the imperfections of time itself. This could only be realised in a moment itself, with no pause for reaction nor space for reflection. The resonance of the night itself would echo so ghastly on the sick and empty bodies of Soho, the human you knew was there, as was the other person who seems to dwell in the darkest corner of every Lysergic wasteland.

So sweat, and ride that doomed railroad into it's very last sleeper. The journey may differ in this life and the next, but may we always arrive at our ticketed destination. Empty and souless. Nothing gained and nothing lost, we offer ourselves back to the everlasting and assume our roles in the great mechanism of self-awareness.