There is no beginning. It is already underway. This is merely a report, a dispatch for the record, a missive from the frontline. We were the audience in reality and in role. We always were the audience and we will always be the audience, condemned to peer upon the stage, searching for ourselves, through the eyes of woman, man, chimpanzee and all things between, before and beyond. All we catch are glimpses, familiar figures that disappear around the corner or confront us unexpectedly, our stomachs tightening in sudden realisation. We are locked in this nebulous certainty you and I, arm in arm amidst the shadows of Back Piccadilly or shrinking beneath the arches towards Tony Wilson Place. We are victims of a consistent condition, fixed clearly in the mind of a man long gone: as we were his audience then, a hundred years ago, we are his audience now. Like a circle there is no beginning, there is no end. We were always in this theatre, always in the audience, always on the stage. There is no way out.