Sweat and salt and morning mist, a neoprene fiend with frozen fists, dreaming dreams of hot upholstery, in the battered fiesta on the cliff behind me.

Cursing Jack Frost and Kelly too, is not that easy when you’re turning blue, but the salt’s in my eyes and sun’s on my skin, I’m fading out so I better head in.

But another one’s coming, and I’ve barely got time to breathe, another’s coming.

There’s nothing like Compton, there’s nothing quite like falling short.