Spodyody weighs heavy with a cosmic weariness. The incessant chatter on the wires, the constant headache pulse of radio waves, all the digital-age detritus ricocheting around like bullets on the Somme. We stumble onwards like a wounded Apollinaire, shocked but still sentient, to arrive back at Chez Spody with the heart-pounding realisation that all hope is not lost: Put away that rope and take the bullets from the chamber; tidy away the shovels and save that wooden box for another day.

               Forget about your face in a trillion different places, or your words echoing down the empty corridors of time, abandoned and unheard. Just create: Leave the Babel to the morons hypnotised by the flickering lights; all heads bowed on transport systems as if joined in some sacred prayer. Just create: Lose yourself in a reverie and reconnect with our primordial selves. Just create: And we will dance once more in the beautiful moonlight of unspoken desires. Just create: And we will find ourselves in that place where innocence was abandoned and we will gather up all of the lost souls and together we will make our World anew. Just create.