A guitar begins alone, high and almost shy, the kind of figure John Frusciante has said he wrote happier than the words because the words were already sad enough.
A soft drum pattern and a keyboard figure begin like a clock in another room, and Cyndi Lauper's voice enters without costume, lying in bed, listening, already promising to catch someone if they fall.
A drum machine snaps, a synth bass ducks under it, and Marc Almond's voice arrives already too much, pleading and showing off in the same breath, as if the club had no back room to hide in.
The breakbeat is indecently tight, a hip-hop chassis with the bolts showing, and then the melody smears, too sweet, too close, a tune that might be a love song if the love song had started to melt.
Two voices enter with almost no accompaniment, close enough to be one instrument, and the first line greets the dark as if it were a person who has been waiting.