Old Paradise Yard

The dragon and I hear sounds tonight. We realise that we haven’t listened to music in a long time. Step by step, swaying slightly to the left, we make our way as the party lights buzz nonchalantly. Old Paradise Yard is full of secrets. One, in particular, is club Iklectik. There, in hushed electricity where ordering a drink is a mastery of subtlety, we are drowned in sound. And it is such a relief. Thomas Stone, a master of experiments, is playing electric contrabassoon awash in visual art. His partner in crime, James, has tumbled us through a nightmare forest, a place I somehow recognize, only through its searing power. Thomas chooses notes as if taken from a rainbow. They are just right, they speak to me and I know where I am. It almost hurts that I feel so much. And the crazy thing is, the dragon feels less. I’m aware of him but nothing is particularly present. I just am. On Tuesday we will be separated. His ungainly smoke will spiral softly, gently smiling jaws.