I went to see Moonage Daydream yesterday. I won’t try and describe what happened then. As usual, whenever something involving Bowie happens I find myself getting into every corner of myself, so much so that it’s clearer than ever how weird, cowed and destructive the idea of myself actually can be. It was good.

I want to say something instead about the preceding half an hour. That time in the cinema before what I want to watch happens. I’m a far less frequent visitor to cinemas than I once was, so that when I do go I tend to be struck by what has happened to that half hour or so.

It’s become something that disgusts me. I want to spit it out like a bite of a rotten apple.

All I see are the pained bodies of people who seem more cut off from themselves than ever. People filming themselves doing things I can only imagine they might barely remember (because they are filming themselves) or driving cars as if in a monochrome dream. Trying to think through any of this is trying to make sense of psychosis. Try this instead and see what it makes you think: