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Cigarettes.
Cigarettes.
Yes.

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=  dream dream dream - insert robots, flying monkeys and meg tilly here.

Actually i don't smoke camels - not since they changed from being turkish tobacco some time in the 80s - i smoke gitanes as it goes. And of course when i say Europe - i mean, LimeyLand... and when i say LimeyLand i mean of course, my house... and when i say 20 - let's start again shall we.

My house on 2.5 bootlegs a night.
That's... closer.

Always been a fan of that funky furry fuzzed up period of the Stones which was roughly 1969 - 75,
though muzo geeks will argue over that (zzz).

But anyone with hip joints, a groin, or insomnia (!) will know what i mean.

Great chewy tunes with a widescreen splash writing movies in the mind - from the sahara voodoo of 'Can you hear the music' 
to the chilly hands in army-jacket pockets romance (across 110th street) that is  'Till the next time we say goodbye'
and on through the insane oxyacetylene white fire that is 'All down the line'.
Yeah -it's all heady stuff.

Back from the daze when William S. Burroughs thought Mick Jagger was gonna make the audience shake clean out of their skins and Patti Smith wanted nothing more than to wear a Keith Richards T-shirt and flirt with the Ramones.

Bam - good hits flaring up with the dawn like the sun off a pair of dirty shades, the reflective silver scratched and dripping like cheap lipstick.

And now it's morning already..