A giddily, unrepentantly tacky mock tudor mansion. A vast reception room, featureless except for a extravagant fountain, a handful of tastelessly positioned potted plants, and a marble staircase which winds its way into the heart of the building. The tiled floor has a black and white chessboard pattern, and the symmetry of the pattern is spoilt by trails of glass, puddles of wine and smears of cheese and caviar. A middle aged man lies sprawled against the rim of the fountain, wearing only a large white dressing gown. He holds a small glass of whiskey. His gaze listlessly wanders across the wreckage of yesterday's party, never stopping to focus on anything for too long. He looks sad and contemplative, as if the emptiness of his aimless existence worries him. This is what 'Black Dot, White Spider' sounds like.
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