Socrates and Leonard Cohen sit beneath an olive tree smoking opium from a Chinese pipe.
Socrates: Gestures at black tar. Is this British? It has that tangy taste.
LC: You know I don’t buy British.
Both are silent as they mull over each other’s words.
LC: You know I got fans.
S: I got fans.
LC: Yeah, but mine are alive.
S:
LC: Sometimes I think they want all my songs to be about sex, but I don’t even know what to write for myself.
S: In what ways do you write?
LC: Either at my desk when I call it work, or throughout the day in odd episodes, when ideas strike my mind.
S: And in what ways are these each good, and in what way not good?
LC: When I find something new it is good.
S: Is it the only good?
LC: No, there are others, like…
S: But what is the one generic term which covers all those which are good.
LC: You’re not really helping me here, but thanks, dude. I’ll shout you next time..
S: Ciao.
