Not that anyone would let him!

Bill would have lived there forever though.

William Burroughs, Fairytale House, Holyrood Palace, EH – fucking – whatever.

Does the queen have a postcode?

The old bathhouse is tiny, ancient, with a crooked chimney and small barred windows.

They could just pass him drugs and cigarettes through the bars.

Across the street, a young man had been asleep on a park bench. Bill sat next to him. Lit a cigarette. The man woke. Smiled. Held his fingers out for a cigarette. It seemed that they were already part way through a very long life together when they met. The awkward part of getting to know each other – never occurred.

There will be time to climb up the worn stairwell after he’s sorted himself out.

His love will be drunk as a long-eared owl.

Intoxicating to have him to go to!

That time with one you want to be with more than anything else.

He never thought he’d feel like this again!

Bill has left all he has ever believed in or cared for – many times. Arriving is a form of leaving. He cannot seem to quit. Finding a way to leave behind everything and start over again – has become a way of being.

Non-attachment: authorities don’t like it.

Who wants crooks and drunks and junkies to seek tendrils of free thought?

Send them out multiplied.

A relentless octopus of free thought to descend all depths. Gain incandescent light! Grow more pods. Become a deity with sharp tiny teeth. Grow ever longer tentacles. The great octopus cult of the future! Authorities would not like that one. Bill has known for a long time: endorsed crooks, drunks and junkies have one label for their power only. They call themselves – government. That single word seems to be used as a get-out clause for literally any old degenerate selfish behaviour. Those crooks and junkies and drunks – dispute the right of any other human – to think in any way that could be considered free. There is a click behind him as the basement door closes. Bill descends. There is a dim light. The air grows mustier. It is laced with urine and something darker he does not want his psyche to even detect. His nose (finely tuned) seeks out a faint vinegar smell, an odour like vitamins. Sometimes there is no smell – other times it is weirdly like Band-Aids. His nose is always trying to detect it.

The basement room has a low ceiling. Rubbish and needles litter the floor.

She is in the corner sat in lotus.

Wizened as a monkey.

She looks up at him with luminous eyes.

– Bill.

– Little Mama!

She grins with darkened teeth and eyes hunched under bone. A jukebox glows merrily beside her.

– We hacked into the electrics since you last visited.

– I see, more lights and music!