I write to you from the external stirwell of one of New York's gothic monoliths. Below my feel I see people, walking, cars, thusting. I am on the 8th floor. I I fell I mightn't make a sound. The flight from LA to New York went by in no time, thanks to the company of a safe and entertaining Australian lady (and Jeff). I didn't even watch a film or nuffink. New York arrived in a blaze of light, then we waited for a cab for an hour or so and I DJed at the airport off of my laptop. A cabbie was totally feeling Bruza. Then I checked into my hotel, which was just like that place in that David Lynch movie where there's, like, three or four stories set in one hotel over the course of, like, a hunnerd years or suttin. Only smaller. Hotels make me lonesome, which is sometimes nice, in a bittersweet fashion, but it gives me too much room to think. I took a walk about the locale, which I know so well now - visited my old internet cafe on Ludlow, my old pizza place near Rivington. Met a safe old dread who used to be in BAD. Met some rotten soriety (is that the right word?) girls. Read about murder in the local paper. Walked New York, as I used to, full of wonder and joy and sweet sadness.

I was lonesome in my hotel that night, and the TV made me very sad. I saw four girls competing for the attention of some douche, vowing to get surgery to please him, slagging each other off mercilessly for the cameras, while Oprah rejoiced at "equality" on the other channel.

I got The Fear, you know. The TV was full of my enemies. When it was off, the room was too. Swirling around like vicious ghosts. A man missing, I'd heard, last heard from fleeing through a canyon in LA with a pack of dogs after him, their masters baying for his blood. He'd lost his glasses, and someone said a shoe. Never heard from again. Police searching his hard drive for clues. Nothing but an answerphone message filled with screams and barking.

So I slept, and I dreamed lucidly, and with clarity, and I dreamed somebody loved me. And we held each other, and the walls bled, and the universe turned, and the sky roared with static.

When her hair turned black in my hands I didn't even blink. As the blood rose to our shoulders, all I knew was she wanted a Ribena, so I swam to a shop and got her one.

I awoke bathed in reality, and it smelt like my dream.

We had lunch with James, and I am moving into a new hotel today, because my little Lynchian nightmare has no wifi. So to the Tribeka, and poshness.