This was recorded from the verdant overgrown idyll overlooked by my fire escape (which, if you can ignore the fact that you have to climb out a window to get to it, and get over the fact that you’re squatting on metal bars, and that it’s, you know, ILLEGAL, is just like a terrace. A balcony! A rooftop!). It’s quiet back there, a few birds even which might prove a fine soundtrack, and while I was squinting to find my own piece of urban green, if you close your eyes on your own while listening, you might imagine yourself with Cocteau, running from the cops and dolling yourself up for a Bosom Buddies-style hideaway in a Marseilles bordello. Or. Not?