We have been walking too long in someone else's sleep. There is a nagging sense - we reward ourselves by insisting upon it - of having travelled through a dark night of the soul, a lightless tunnel. Sick colours spiral from the grey-mauve scurf of cathode-ray addiction, recessing to some infinitely remote, infinitely cold region: dead stars. Any action, however stupid, outranks contemplation.

- Iain Sinclair, Lights Out for the Territory.