“Are you listening to me or not?”

“Yeah, of course I am.”

“Because this is important.”

“Hey, you’re the head of publishing. I’m just the lowly literary assistant you’re sleeping with.”

“That is precisely why I am telling you this. You could be in my position one day.”

“Nailing someone half my age?”

“Hello little girl, and what’s your name?”

“Doctor Sandra Phillips, PhD.”

“Oh! And how old are you, Sandra?”

“Right now? Well, I guess the most accurate answer is that I am nine and three-quarters.”

“That’s a very good age! And is that your mommy standing over there on the porch, Sandra?”

“Is this Sally Gotten?”

“Speaking.”

“Sally Gotten. Brooklyn, New York. IP Address ending 145.178?”

“Sorry, what is this about?”

“I am Cobra.”

“Cobra?”

“Hey, are you up?”

“Yeah, I’m here.”

“Can I talk to you about something?”

“Give me a second.”

“In another chat?”

“Yeah, let me just wrap it up.”

The body rested just outside Warwickshire. The ground was consecrated by no less than seven Catholic priests who, by performing the act, agreed that Jonathan Stoakes was not only honourable, decent and noble but also – at least by the manner of his deeds – divine. His gravestone attested to this notion and along with the date of his birth and his death it bore the line: ‘Should we in our modesty ever know again the goodness of Mr Stoakes then rejoice, for we shall live in the kingdom of Heaven.’

What is it about LSD that makes people believe they are Jesus Christ? There must be something about it that breaks down the final barrier of their ego there to remind them that they have not only thought about doing horrible things but that they had actually done them. In The Haight in ’67, I met a bunch of Jesus Christs. They would turn up out of nowhere, with disciples and revelations in tow, ready to lead whoever was inclined to follow to a redemption that was so clear the only sin left on you once you understood the truth was how you had been so blind to have not seen it before then.