I like the music of equipment punctuated with grunts and exhalations of grind. Not Grime. Not Trap. Not happy House or Acid. I’ve got enough toxins to deal with just from the warm air in circulation. If it got any warmer we’d be gossiping Harpies haggling for a ride before being escorted away to endure a crimson Carson sterilisation. Banter tonight is who would be a Gunner? Think i’m playing? The noise of the apparatus put into action alkalinises my mind. The silence in the space between an extended hour and leg extensions never sounded better. Yep. Who would be a Gunner tonight. Jolly good thumping and the young men that spoke a good game crumbled. Extended hour never seemed so long as it crawled tonight. Stretched out like her name before me. An apparation. A song in waiting.