Time

The rolling 125 BPM chassis grips the floor with a patience that I find almost devotional, a deep-house engine running at a steady seven-out-of-ten intensity that favours hypnosis over hysteria. Set in the open, bright terrain of 7B, those spiralling pads and dubbed-out toms carve out a vast, smoke-filled room where every reverberant clap hangs like incense around my booth.

I reach for this when the night has passed its peak but the dancefloor is still clinging on, using it as a mid-set anchor or closing prayer that stretches time across a quarter-hour of communal trance. In my hands it moves less like a club track and more like a tide, pulling bodies into its orbit until the boundary between selector and crowd dissolves entirely.