It’s 3am in Limehouse. I’m locked in a box of lines on a floor of smoke crashing into a corridor of sniffing static holes. Buzzing my hypersensitive fingers tips off rocking my dilated pupils vast and empty to absorb it all. Locked behind large blue peeling doors. Felt up for metal steel shaped in violence. Its 4am in Limehouse. The only weapon I’m packing is my mind. But that’s my problem. Blocked by the base in the bassline of the middle of the whirling pits spitting snare cracks at the shadows in the alcoves. A few moments return to me its 1am in Limehouse, 6am in Limehouse. What time is it in New York? Or in the eyes of the skeleton with the Berlin haircut. The Bangkok sofas the mirrors smudged in Columbia the international appeal of Amsterdams crystal content. Its 5am in Limehouse and I’m locked in a box of lines on a floor of smoke and sugar. I ejaculate urine golden showers on the metal steel wall. Orgasming as I notices its light outside. I’m all the people cramming the basement by the police station in Limehouse at 2am. Rocking and crashing all my tendons and muscles… tearing all my movements with the contorted clan in the drug ditch. Shadows in the alcoves sweating chemistry and spitting snare cracks like bullets from a mic from a speaker. I’m an MC’s voicebox soaring on base drums. I am alone at midnight in Limehouse…and I am everyone when the morning comes. And as I empty myself onto commuter carriages I realize that I’m no one. That I am you and me and that we are everyone. That I was never in Limehouse at 3am that I arrived at 2am and left with my girlfriend at 1am because she felt ill…. but I was touching Vinyl as the crowd dimmed at 5am and I was a face in the middle of the darkness muttering complaints as I span drum and bass to my distaste. At some point I became the anonymous everyone one night in Limehouse.