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I'm over the lip and surfing one of the longest, deepest escalators on the Underground. On the headphones Miles kicks in, dense muddy Dark Magus-period stuff which sounds like it's coming from the tunnels and machines all around. There are no maps of this place; Harry Beck's plan on the walls of the ticket halls is only a vague clue.
When I next notice anything, the train has hurled me out and sparked into the dark. There might be a bus home; might not. I'm standing on black wet tarmac, thinking of a line from an old article about On the Corner: 'Teo Macero didn't know how to record the band at this point, and maybe nobody else did, either.'

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