The Spring sunshine makes the blind a perfect glowing square, clearly much later than the twenty-three minute duration of the live recording I set in motion, as I lay on my friend's bed alone, drunk on vodka and tonic and giddy with big city kicks after the very . . . Manhattan evening I was taken on. It was dark, I was too full of it to take the subway back to Brooklyn, I remember the cab ride over the bridge, no dog to greet me as I unlocked the heavy steel door. I was laughing at Alan Vega complaining about not being allowed to smoke, there was booing . . . ‘Frankie Teardrop’ had been glitching over Brussels for hours.