Up on the roof a naked DJ smears himself with Citrus Marmalade.
One final pleasure in the abject misery of his self-knowledge.
He’s distressed. We can hear that now. Sobs wrack his body
and somehow threaten to spoil the moment for a moment.
But now he’s back on track, throwing the coil of three cord round his neck.

He checks the knot,

and steps off the,

edge.

Now before the cord pulls tight he shouts, “I’m Connor Philips,
please forgive me.”

And the windows all around fly open and
a thousand voices cry out, “no fucking way.”

And as his spine is snapped apart, I’m thinking, “god, I hope he heard
them.”

*Please play The Sweetest Girl by Scritti Politti*