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Sometimes Keith Levene watches John Lydon take a shower. The bathroom of their apartment is cramped and dark, even water stains and moulds on the ceiling are brighter than the faint, swinging light bulb. The door is half opened, Keith Levene filled himself in the narrow gap between the door and its frame. The humid, sultry vapour rushes toward him, leaving a sticky, plicated feeling on his shirt. He's already nearsighted, which means all he can see is John Lydon's blurred nudity wrapped in the mist, becoming a part of the pale and dim light in the room. John Lydon never tries to hide away from Keith Levene, but neither does he face him head on. Just like when people look at the moon from their planet: they always capture the same side. John Lydon is just like the moon - even those wounds, bruises and scars on his body look like craters and gullies on the moon. From time to time Keith Levene wants to ask: I've already seen your entire body for a thousand time, so what's even the point of this. He absolutely knows that John Lydon wouldn't answer to this doubt, so all he does is lighting a cigarette in the misty bathroom. John Lydon's red hair is hidden in plain sight.
John Lydon isn't in the habit of drying himself off after bath. Even he is wrapped in his dressing gown, he'll still leave dark-coloured wet marks on the bed sheet and pillowcase. Keith Levene lies right next to him, and soon he will lay his arm or shin, with drops of water, on him. All the windows in London are drenched by the rain. All of Keith Levene is drenched by John Lydon. So this becomes a good excuse, an excuse for them to blend together after even one simplest touch, like two rain drops on the glass window. Blend together: the dry and the wet, the warm and the cold, the hard and the soft. Occasionally Keith Levene's sweat drips on John Lydon's back, occasionally John Lydon's tears drip on the pillow: it's raining outside, it's raining inside. John Lydon is, as a matter of fact and surprisingly, soft, and Keith Levene prefers not to think about how many other people are conscious of this secret. Several months ago Paul Simonon went to meet him and John Lydon - Simo has always been a straight shooter, isn't he. - he looked at him, then looked at John, and said: he's got your soul, Keith. You're addicted to him.
Keith Levene said: me?
It's raining in London. On this side of the roof are canopies, on that side are pipes in disrepair. With his shirt unbuttoned, John Lydon squats on a rusty iron pipe. Just like a stray cat. His pale blue eyes shine above the rainy night of this city. Through the curtain of rain drops and without mist, now Keith Levene can see it all much more clearly. The rain-soaked John Lydon looks even thinner and smaller than usual, as if he was some kind of downy critter, locks of wet red hair clining to his forehead. As though all his sharp edge was washed away. There's a smell of rust in the rain. John Lydon tilted his head back and took a swig of beer mixed with rain water, then casually gestured at Keith Levene to come over.
Keith Levene was in a trance, so he couldn't tell wether he wants to push John Lydon off from the roof top, or he actually wants to kiss him.