Before the Cataclysm

‘I miss music the most. Real music. Synth. Bass. Heavy bass. Trance. Keys. Sub whoofers. Ecstasy. I miss ecstasy. Goose-bumps during work that day. Half a pill to get you ready. Meticulously crafted bombs, timed to bring you up as your heel hits the dancefloor and the track melts, entering your consciousness by osmosis. Baggies to dab from, keep you level, keep you on an even keel, keep you purgatoried between twilights. Glacial water on tap to swill powdered bitterness from your mouth, to run against the back of your neck and raise the hairs on your arms. Nothing but you and the DJ who, for all you care, is the messiah.

And may he not dropeth that bass till the very last molecule of energy is metabolised and stationed through the absolute extremities of your being. Not till this amphetamine has spread itself butter-on-toast thin through your aching bones, working them to calculated frenzy. Not till you’re good and ready. It doesn’t matter if the lights colouring the fingers around you are real, it doesn’t matter you haven’t smoked a cigarette in three hours, or you’ve smoked three packets in one, it especially doesn’t matter that you’ve a five kilometre walk home – the club stays open till four so it’ll be light by then anyway. And the club doth decree that on the third hour the DJ is resurrected, returning unto you middle and ring fingers replenished, relationship with the turntable spiritual, thicker than covenantial blood and uterine water combined. Then, if you’ve got it just right, you tuck the last few grains up under your lip just as the train fires through its final station,messiah bending speakers to their will, their body a rolling mass of fucking yes as the lights come up and revealed to them is a doe eyed tangle of beauty incarnate: the fruits of their labour. You, and a hundred other yous, on top of the fucking world. Shit… Yeah. I really miss that.’

‘Damn… I was just gonna say I missed my Jiji’s soba.’


‘I said I was just gonna say I missed my Jiji’s cooking.’

‘I don’t –’

Kuso, Kimiko! I asked you what you missed most. About before.’

‘Right. Yeah. So, your grandmother, good cook?’

‘Oh. The best.’

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