Standing at the Brink of another day I'm going places that I never thought I would be, My heart starts to sink, I wish it all away, The names the places and the looks on people's faces. Searching for the link that's gonna make me stay, Cos when I'm gone I'm gone for good I'll leave no traces. My head starts to think "Is there another way?" But now I know that I'm exactly where I should be. It seems so close but far away I wonder how these days escape I think about it time again And I'm just here standing on the brink (I've gotta get away)

I gotta choose my words so carefully, You're not my friend you're just my enemy, You're just a fake and I can clearly see, Your sanctimonious supremacy. Now I know I wanna be (ten feet tall) Cos you're standing over me (ten feet tall) I'll be standing over you (ten feet tall) and what d'you think you're gonna do?

You can work for your living but you play for your life Pay your dues by day, by night you do what you like

Cos we try so hard and get nowhere fast, You wanna see me struggle? I can't wait to burst your bubble I ain't got nothing to lose. Off the mark and my mind is ready, Using my noodle, check my spaghetti, Now I'll go as far as the senses let me, If they wanna stop it, tell 'em come and get me. I run around trying to make it through the struggle, Gaze at the stars, soul searching a puddle, I'm sick of trying hard getting nothing for my trouble, I'm gonna tear down down the world have a party on the rubble. I'm nursing scars at the bar drinking doubles, You are who you are so why you trying to be humble? I'm in primal state and no mistake, I'm caged, I'm an animal, I'm kicking down the gate. But I can't wait to do, What everybody says that was made for you, So I keep going til I'm ready for the struggles, here evident, I'm living off peanuts with the presence of an elephant. Cos we try so hard and get nowhere fast, You wanna see me struggle? I can't wait to burst your bubble I ain't got nothing to lose. They say the rich don't speak when your dreams are in front of ya, I'm walking in a straight line trying to get insomnia, When the ground feels like it's gone from under ya, Falling down a hole, I'm tumbling now I'm wondering why, I succumbed to the rabbit, If it's time they want you can tell them they can have it, Any opportunity I see, I grab it, Lose myself in the moment, alluding to habit No more excuses, I can't have it, Now I can light a fire but I don't have a matchstick, I'll rub twigs together if measures get drastic, So if they want fire, I'll throw it they can catch it. I'll make sure they can't match it, I'll go til my lungs give out, I wanna be the first drop of rain in a drought, Maintain my frame and restraining from doubt. Cos we try so hard and get nowhere fast, You wanna see me struggle? I can't wait to burst your bubble I ain't got nothing to lose.

We Make Dance Music. What is it you want from me? I can't give no more. Can't fight a cause I don't believe, no turning back for shore. Have we forgotten what we're fighting for, gone rotten to the core? There's only one thing we will do, and this I know for sure. We Make Dance Music.

Burning the candle at both ends, You give all you can and you get up and do it again. You're wearing yourself, you'll go down in flames, But you love it all the same.

London is a rain machine, who keeps turning it on? I thought the cold was ending but I'm still not getting sun. And everyone's complaining like they don't know who to write to, We just wear down all our pencils while we try to wish the sky blue. I just checked the rain we got a whole week of weather, Like the sky's OCD trying to clean the streets better, But I've never found myself with dry veins in my bitterness, I've got the black inside me and I'm living like a lizard is. I go to the ground feeding my sadness to the worms, I want to fly away but there's too much baggage tied to words. Light will emerge when I get my eyes out this darkness, I've got the strangest wounds and I'm speaking in their jargon. Do poets follow bad clouds or bad clouds the poet? Don't test drive my madness you can call me locomotive, There's a head in my voice and I can't stop it thinking, The worst thing about this is there's no way no to listen. I could be standing in an earthquake and the only think that can't shake is that feeling that I can't keep sinking, and you know, I sleep on my feet sometimes and criticise my own dreams like "Come on Ray you've got to keep it moving." But my movement is stuck in the time that I spend trying to live in it, yet I know what really matters is all the little things. I am from a universe that has not taught me about its gravity, I'm from a slightly more derelict Hackney, I've been working on myself you can smell the surgery. You can see the scars, stretching I can tell you where it hurts. Failure is the worst thing that could happen to my heart. I know how hard it gets when you know only too well that's it's in your architecture to destruct what you've built. And you're burning, on fire from the answer that what you have is not working. Sometimes I love what the weather does. Sometimes I wonder if what falls out the sky belongs on the ground? London is a rain machine, who keeps turning it on? I thought the cold was ending but I'm still not getting sun. And everyone's complaining like they don't know who to write to, We just wear down all our pencils while we try to wish the sky blue. I just checked the rain we got a whole week of weather, Like the sky's OCD trying to clean the streets better, But I've never found myself with dry veins in my bitterness, I've got the black inside me and I'm living like a lizard is.

A hulking old Remington typewriter - standard no 12 model - seen over the shoulder of a young man in a white shirt. His fingers dance freely, striking keys with a jazz-like skittering precision. The black of the machine's body is scuffed, but its golden trim and carriage are spotlessly clean. The man glances over his shoulder then quick snap back to the page. He pushes out the carriage return lever - slide and clunk, clunk, starts his new line, stops. Checks over his shoulder again - nothing. The year is 2156, the world has ended and carried on, and this is it. And this is it. A man at a desk - rectangular, dull steel - in the centre of a vast empty warehouse. He stares down at a photo in a small silver frame - a woman - beautiful, her eyes dull, grey. The man blinks, his face changed, heavy with memories. Close-up: his mouth tense, tightening, bottom lip squeezed by top tooth biting. He looks back to the page, shifts his weight in his chair, fills his chest with a deep breath, resumes typing. Zoom right in: for the first time we can read his words: "'Stories have always been special,' she said, 'you must remember that.' And she pulled the blanket up to his chin. 'But this one - the one I will tell you tonight - is perhaps most special of all.' and her bright blue eyes glinted like sunlight through waterfalls. 'Most special of all,' she said 'because this story is about a man who wrote stories - stories that were so right and so true, they had the power to change the world around them." Cut to an open window in the same wareouse. The writer stands framed within it, smoking, looking out at the night. Long shot: clusters of concrete box huts, a shack with a blue tarpaulin roof. Seen from above this sprawling, low-level city of gloom and blinking lights could be a carpet of fallen stars. Suddenly a scattering of lights go out, a snaking path of darkness through the city, winding closer, inevitably closer. Quick pan to the typewriter and back - all out of focus. The darkness arrives, and within it we notice three figures, three giant men, stood in a line: baseball bats, face all tats, hoods up. A wooden sign on the warehouse fence says "Private". They push it aside. Back to the writer: Fists clench and unclench. He grabs the story, grabs the picture off the desk - turns fast. Cut to the door: the three men blocking his path. "The story - now," the leader speaks, his face tattoos of random letters. The writer shifts his weight from foot to foot searching for exits but there's no route through. "Why today?..I...mean..I-I don't have it...I..." Two hoods step forward, push the writer to the wall. One punch to the gut he doubles over, falls - foetal position. Takes a couple cracks from the bat to his back. The leader bends down, snatches the story, turns, leaves. The two henchmen follow. We can hear the writer breathe and hear that every breath is hard. He pulls himself to sitting, waits until the men's footsteps are no longer audible from the yard. Shifts his weight to take the photo form his back trouser pocket. The glass is cracked. He turns it upside-down so the fragments drop to the floor, and looks once more at the picture. The woman: still beautiful, but her eyes now bright blue. Roll credits.

We live life brassic, but ignite passion, to spit like dragons, rah! Another stone cold classic, 184 turn the beat up, bang it. "What's that?" Bang it!