It's all so fake, I'll have no part in it.

Creepy pre-dawn light invading my privacy as I finally collided with my bed at 3.15, my mind insistently continued its spin-cycle of thought and try as I might the plug would not come out. So, I lay there, filled with irritation for All That Is Now, and beneath that a desperate lust for the jungle of Borneo.

Half an hour later, staring at a ceiling tragically void of stars or leafy canopy, I listened to a Mood CD entitled Sound Of The Jungle which magically appeared in my collection a few months ago. But as I lay there, my aggrivation mushroomed like an airbag in a roll-over because, here's the thing - the jungle doesn't sound like that!!

Even discounting the bizzarre accompaniment of pan pipes which supposedly enhances the whole thing, it wasn't right. It's quieter, for one thing, and you hear much more of wind-tree friction than you do annoying cacophony of insects birds and howling monkeys. Of course, that's not to say you cannot hear these things - the crickets, for one, don't ever stop for breath. But this pre-recorded shite is so off balance; the symphony won't happen in a 4 bar phrase.

And in the real world, there's space between the monkeys and the thunder to hear the silent noises of your being - the rise and fall of your chest, the scratching as you roll over - carefully lest you crash into a fellow traveller.

And there's one last resonating jungle-creator that the producers of my mood forgot - The snoring of Pantera-Man and Jungle-Bunny Dave!