Disorder

I remember the first time I met Ian Curtis.  January sea mist wrapping its fingers across the city.   4:45pm, legs hanging over the arm rest of a pattern-less comfy chair.  Pale, swollen light swimming through net curtains and splashing hesitantly on the crisp white wall behind me.  A faint yellowness, a hue of vitality before the evening cold.

I click to play.  Three seconds of silence, dust settles on the blistered table top.  A click of drums, a bass line barrelling at me, hypnotic, dancing, filling the space between the beats.  A voice reeling, reaching, seeping through the layers of seaside gloom.

‘I’ve been looking for a guide to come and take me by the hand.’

A knife cut across the mildewed windowsills and inactive storage heaters.  A whisper in the noise, a beacon of times ahead.

‘I’ve got the spirit, but lose the feeling.’

End, play, end, play.  A new dawn fades.