It was then, at his most miserable, that he remembered a time in his early adulthood, when he was at his most serene.
He was in a subterranean nightclub, called Fibbers, watching Goths and Metallers moshing on the dance-floor. He was smiling. As he watched, he rejoiced in the insane debauchery of their spastic movements and lurid gyrations. It was as if they were dancing upon a disc of fire, the flames of which were fuelled by their very own lusts. Their facial expressions told of pleasure, and pain. He laughed to himself, and rejoiced. How wonderfully bizarre, he thought, as they leapt in and out of their own self-created pyres!
Ah, yes, he thought, remembering. Tashi, that was his name. The monk he had met in the Buddhist Centre near The Museum of Modern Art. Meditation. Yes, yes, yes. He remembered now. The breath. Just the breath. Watching the breath. How it had made everything so much more spacious. Tashi was gone now, surely. Who knows where. But, yes, he remembered. He remembered how he had felt, mmmm, so free.
Now, at his most imprisoned, John recalled the way to release.