‘e will fucking liberate ya

Liberator was the name of the DJ – “DJ Liberator” – and Paul had been promised he would do exactly fucking that.

What liberation was he seeking? It was the experience of emptiness and fullness. You no longer existed as a person, which is to say, you did not have to communicate, nor function socially in any way, eat, drink, dress, be housed or kept warm. You certainly did not have a face with which to smile or grimace; you had no name, nor any other trace of identity, fixity or permanence. You are fully, and only, a body with basslines moving through its core and melodies extending through its arms.

He found him eventually, DJing in a small club on Coldharbour Lane one Saturday night that same Summer. He had expected it to be rammed, but the club had a rather subdued atmosphere; there was dancing, but in a sort of restrained or polite way, and it sounded as if Liberator had left his best records at home and was simply playing all the records he had bought but never really played – just to have played them this once, so as not to have completely wasted his money. Paul sorted of tried to dance, but he too was caught in the noncommital and cautious spirit of that night. He hung around for hours, wandering when the moment of liberation might come, but became increasingly tired – even yawning – and in the end trudged back to his bedsit with bewildered disappointment.

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