It's ten to two in the morning. Lightening flashes outside to chill the sultry air and I'm listening for the first time to Amy Winehouse sing.
We went to the Electric Cinema last night, stretched out on the Valentino sofa, together in an oasis of calm amidst the sweating city desert of a thousand Friday evening hot dreams. We ate sticky honey-combed ice-cream and watched a young Jewish flame extinguished.
It was a moving film, just the soundtrack of a short life played out in the flashlights of a world that spins endlessly restless.
And I'm listening now to the departed voice.
