– There are 3.136 billion people in the world, John. We could count up how many legs that is, how many livers, how many arms and fingers and toes. Of course we’d have to account for all the toeless folks, it does no good to ignore them.

– It’s too many, Bill.

– Fir what?

– Democracy.

John lays down beside Bill.

– I took some LSD, I put some in yer tea unnaw before you went out. It should be working. Bill, how can all of the people on this planet have a consciousness?

John curls beside him soft and gentle as a cat.

– Some of them don’t. Not my neighbours back at home. Or their dog.

– Consciousness radiates fae you like fire. I uhm sorry ye’ve been cursed with so much of it.

– I am too.

– It’s like loving a volcano, a sage. One day you will be very famous, Mr Burroughs, and I will still be an undertaker and we will still be living through the strangest days. You think I’m using you but – my love is true.

– I know. I’m sorry.

– I’m not.

– What we need to do is devote a day solely to thinking up new inventions, John.

– The world needs that!

– A day that should be spent considering science – not poetry. I am a poet and as a whole we are a suspicious people. What we all need to look at is the antimatter.

– Bill, d’ye want a cup ay tea with just sugar in it this time, nae LSD, maybe milk and two?

– Do I want one? Would I like one? A question, I see. You are going to brew, tea?

– Aye.

– At a time like this?

– Like what?

– Well, we are declaring our feelings are we not? It always seems to happen to me in Edinburgh. Like last year, all the writers gathered publicly. They spoke and fought. Arrows have been slung – there will be repercussions.

– Are you talking about the Writers’ Conference, Bill?

– That does indeed seem to be what I am referring to.

– Do you take sugar?

– I do, John.

– How many?

– At least ten, or eight if you’re running low.

– Do you like it strong, or weak?

Bill stares at him.

– You probably don’t even know how the hippos were boiled in their tanks, do you, John?

His lover comes back out of the kitchenette. There are cut-up lines of poetry and prose Blu-tacked all over the walls. John picks one off the wall and reads it.

– Telstar Marilyn!

1944

Flat 4F4

Ivy Proudfoot (17) cupid’s corner