Track 3: Born Under Punches (The Beat Goes On) by Talking Heads

Someone says: "I want to stab the art world in the eye.

The party is full. People crush around me. I am sick.

"He'd never eaten polenta, says someone else.

A person DJs at the end of the room. A young woman with braided hair talks about travelling in Thailand.

I shouldn't be here.

Outside, the air smells of sulphur, flame spouts from the chemical works by the river. Two people stand by the door to the flat; one says 'where did you get your trainers?'. The other says 'Reykjavik'.

Like a black sun, The Millennium Dome crests the horizon.

I smile at tall woman wearing a Patti Smith T-shirt. She smiles, coal-dusting of stubble on her pale chin, heavy groin in tight jeans suddenly evident.

I smile back.

I am so thin my bones ache. I smoke another cigarette

I have not slept for days.

Everything is slippery, eluding me. I see myself tumbling through space, alone.

I wanted to escape into art to forget dead mothers and cold fathers but I lost my way.

I dream of strong hands, lifting me out.

People watch me as if I am a burning building.

I can't catch my breath anymore.