18. Rush

Some little punk comes up to you
in Koko: When’s No Reflection’s
next gig? he asks. The manager
of an avant-garde Goth band, your
burgundy suit’s Savile Row, hand-
stitched. He produces a joint like it’s
who he is. He’s really very young.
Frère, il faut mourir, you tell him.
You must be in another part of town
shortly, the lunatic moon thawing
your blood. Last night through
St. James’s Square, the first rush.

@ianjmclachlan