on the lonely roads. By 8pm this city is going to bed and the foxes start to whisper between gardens. I’m back at the same corner at 2am after a run to the airport, under the moon wrapped in butter-yellow chrome clouds. Heading out I found a dancehall station to shake the car and just for a moment I remembered that feeling of leaving for the gig, the night-worker life, playing in the band. Dispossessed misfit but happy in my bones. Now this is where I land, that path through the Taiga has led me here. But how? The fox gives no answer.
