I can feel the man I’m next to sinking into sleep. With each breath he seems to drift further downwards in increments, yet really he’s hardly moving at all.

He’s a natural at sleeping attractively in public. He gets the sphinxy, poised look of a cat on a windowsill. I like being the one who gets to lean against his arm and study the way his hand relaxes, fingers uncurling, as he dips further into sleeping.

Amy is sitting on his other side, looking down at her hands, which she’s clasping together in different lattice shapes. Nite is on my other side and he is looking upwards, listening. It takes a lot to knock him out. A man in front places a hand on his girlfriend’s black-jumpered shoulder and she, too, leans into him a little. She has blonde hair swept up with clips and shiny in the dim light. I am looking at her hair and then my eyes close too, for a few minutes. I think about being outdoors in the rain in the summer in the nighttime.

The music makes the air a little fuzzy and thickened. Nite and I had been talking about ozone earlier on. I think about the way electricity smells. This music smells like a computer simulation of what it smells like after a storm. It is coloured grey and blue, mostly, cobalt blue with flickers of silver and a sort of very dark, metallic green. It feels like vapour, nothing to hold onto. I don’t know what it sounds like, exactly, but afterwards we all agree that it could have been quite a bit louder, and later that night I have a dream about Kensal Green Cemetery and a monument shaped like a giant black marble sewing machine and in the dream I’m saying (to the sleeping boy with the sphinxy face, who gets to be in the dream too), is this a monument to a woman who sewed a lot or is it just to some factory owner guy who ran a sweatshop?