The fireworks in these people’s eyes light up the room. Someone jumps in, off the sofa, and steals the very thing you’ve been looking for, for an hour, right out of your hand and disappears into the hole in the room: The blind spot where people are lost and never found, forgotten (to an extent) and never remembered by anyone, least of all by the friends you think they have. A plethora of memories and thoughts can rush back at any moment and a year can pass (or be recounted) in a single breath; the depth and breadth of an active mind dosed-up, will confound, trump and triumph those of the greatest thinkers of our generation. You know everyone and all of their vices. But there’s nothing up the stairs, other than R. and A. and a whole room of people, you politely refuse and head back down (for you know what will come of this) towards the living room, and still the persistent crack-and-psssssssh never seems to cease.