It was only two years later.

Tunes in my head: The Village by New Order
Atmosphere: Creative

I walked out of the flat and into the misty boulevard. Sights of Soho in the rain, which clouded the streets. The clitter clatter of heels and hells crashing down onto the cement, like some out of tune, out of time symphony playing Pink Floyd while staring at a TV showing increasingly Kafkaesque films. (Are they doing an adaptation of The Metamorphosis, I wondered.)

I lit up a cigarette and let it caress the insides of my mouth, delicately kissing the ulcer on my tongue. The smoke was a strange sensation - knowingly malignant and yet ultimately and fleetingly satisfying. Much like sex. A sense of relief from the tedium humdrum of modern life, tearing it's way through my delicate lungs.

Across the street, a cheap fare is asked for, and acquired. The actress drifts off quickly and quietly into the knowing and yet foreign arms of some desperate Londonite. The sort who would have led the girl to some headline in The Daily Mail, some which would shock many of the readers. Whether it would be some cocaine fueled binge that would lead to a sense of notoriety and 15 seconds of fame, or one that would leave the parts of her which were discovered in the books only read by aspiring red light travelers. I did not know the eventual outcome. I could merely predict that she would not be there upon the next glimpse into the shadows of underground life.

It was ten thirty in the morning.