I can't see. REPENT REPENT. We have come to the end of us. I want to tell you that we love you. We reluctantly love the heaving and fleshy Kingston mass of flailing arm, 40 quid haircut and airtight ego as it swells and rolls over the stage, Katamari-style, consuming us all in dark love (veins, guts), right before the indie disco du jour. A thousand acne-ridden faces explode in glorious unison. Someone spills their cheap lager. On purpose. I turn to Duncan, who is a pelican. But all good things come to an end. I can't see. This rash has grown so foul and so harshly that it has become impossible to look back on my life and what it was like before touring... to re-imagine a world of colour and of nature. I open my mouth and out spills white noise. I plug in my guitar pedals: white noise! I turn to the audience and ask them to stop hitting each other: brown noise. I lie in bed and open the window to hear a tree or a bird or the wind, a fart or anything: white noise. Yes, it is true, every good thing comes to an end. I can't see.