The Secret Diary of a Boy

August, 2001, Kreuzberg, Berlin.

So this diary is turning out to be rather a bore. When my mind is filled I cannot change the subject very successfully. And its like an endurance test at the moment. There is something in my head. And it’s Maz. Maz. Maz. Maz. Maz. Like that. Pounding beat. Look left. Maz. Look right. Maz. Open the door. Maz. In my head, on the tube and I’m in a sweat late at night. Will my phone buzz with an SMS. Over there it’s waking hours, so maybe. Maybe. Out-of-control. Relentless suffocating beat. Beat. Maz. Maz. Maaaaaaaaaa. So you see. I’m sure I could use this energy but I can’t focus. I function by talking about her. It makes her real. Read to the tune of Rockafeller Skank. Now start again. No, really. Start again. And its like an endurance test at the moment. There is something in my head. And it’s Maz. Maz. Maz. Maz. Maz. Maz. Maz. Like that. Pounding beat. Look left. Maz. Look right. Maz. Open the door. Maz. In my head, on the tube and I’m in a sweat in the morning hours. Will my phone buzz with an SMS. Over there its waking hours, so maybe. Maybe. Out-of-control. Relentless suffocating beat. Beat. Maz. Maz. Maaaaaaaaaaz. So you see. I’m sure I could use this energy but I just can’t focus. I only function by talking about her. It makes her real. Read to the tune of Rockafeller Skank on headphones and you know where I’m coming from. Imagine the intensity of being blindfolded and brought to orgasm surrounded by 240bpm dance music and hot wax and cold ice. Or Sandstorm by DaRude. And tongues darting repeatedly into each ear. Imagine that sensual overload. Lights flashing primaries and neons. Swirling graphics on videoscreens the size of trucks. Nightclub smoke bathes you in sweet tastable smells. But you are held off orgasm. They are in time with your rhythms and hold you on the edge for hours. You are bathed in sweat drenched smoke. And worse, it’s like this for days, pushing you further. You can’t think. Until slowly your body is drifting through freezeframe motion from one reluctant second to the next. You push each moment to its limits, nurturing and stretching it like blu-tac. You can taste the teardrops of each emotion. Savour it in cheeks. Become a hamster – try to hold it. But now its pulled back and the beats push forward. Flash-past-seconds speed into minutes as the miles clock up. And the sickness of sweating starts again. Beat. Beat. Maz. Maz. Maz. Beat. Maddening coke pumping into your arteries. That intense orgasm back to a scream. Maz. Maz. Maz. Maz. Maz. Now 200bpm and you can’t think no more. Strobe lights sear your retinas, speed garage pounds your eardrums. They hold you naked in clear gel. Spinning on a gyroscope. There must be a point when your head collapses from the intensity. In the red-zone now. Can’t write or speak or think or scream or …

Then the gel explodes away from your body allowing you mad breaths that slow you down as you realise you never died, you just lived faster and faster than you knew, gaining experience from the desert fire, allowing yourself to live the madness and surf the dreamtime. It was good.