Three Minutes Nine Lines

Playing Sonic Youth's Rather Ripped.
Cold, nostalgic, laced through with something disquieting, some warning or premonition.
A painting of a man whose photograph I surreptitiously took in The Evening Star a few months ago.
We call him Doctor Occult.
The sound of the workshops, low and hidden in the air.
Sunlight on the roofs of the houses.
Undercurrents.
An image of a man walking away down a path lined by lamps, not yet on.
In this image it is December.