Julian Cope is on the line (although his voice is faint) and he's telling me about the new book. I ask him if he received the copy of Night In The Triangle and the other things I sent him. Nope, he's puzzled - going to write more about Paths of Ignition. Damn it! We start trying to resolve the confusion about his mailing address but his voice becomes more and more garbled and is lost in the clatter of preparation for dinner.

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At large on east side of the lake. It's a mild, coastal day and I'm listlessly cruising on Lakeshore. Although I can't remember doing it, I know that I have just murdered Barbara Streisand.

We had been lovers in another city. The image of a long sharp knife. After it was done I decided that I needed to go too and took some kind of over-the-counter, euthanasiac preparation. Just like they do in Neon City or Shakespeare. Later her son found me clinically dead in one of the opulent rooms and I could see him squinting at the package to understand the instructions for administering the antidote. I'm not sure why, but he made the call for my resurrection.

I don't know what's happened since then or how I got here but it's clear that I've been absolved. Looking at the crenelated skyline I can feel the world's anticipation for something that I have to give. On the verge of total celebrity. A wonderful sense of protection and enclosure within the black steel of my vehicle.