People have their own tempos.

Some are ahead of the beat - they get up at dawn, they get shit done and they race the sun to bed. They’re in and out, no time for anything. No impact.

Most are right on top of it. Every stroke is mapped out. Planned. Considered. Each tick of the second hand is accounted for. There is nothing dangerous and nothing new here.

But there are a few - a very select few, who sit just behind the beat - right back there in the pocket. You’ve seen these people - you either want to fight them or fuck them. The pocket is where the magic is, the place where smoke solidifies into gold.

This is where James Bellesini lives - he’s in there with his mouse and his powders, just taking his time.

I bet you’ve seen Bellesini - maybe right there on that wall. You’ve seen him as you flip through your record collection, as you pick your t-shirts up off the floor, as you scour the internet to see what The Strokes are up to. You’ll know it’s him too, because you’ll pause. You’ll be pulled back off the beat for a second and you will stare into the pocket.

You’ll see where he lives, what he is, what he does.

Cecil H. Condon The Mess Hall