A vast metropolis under the surface of the earth, teeming and rustling, heaving and bellowing, and from it steps a man, a hero. The crack pipe clicks against the lighter in your shaking grip, comedown a rabid waking dog that paws the cat flap of your conscious mind; afternoon the harsh bleak vision of desperate extremity, unseemly burrowing through odds and ends, friends pockets and the back of seats, anywhere for loot to cross your crackman’s filthy palm; with luck the sweet fever dream of that hot rock’s crackle, the harsh chemical cinnamon of that first desperate drag; the numbing clumsy refuel of the bowl, soft fingers flowing in and out of sight. The album ends.