The creatures-who-would-be-one drifted across from the car park to the sands of Nigg terminal beach. They were tired because a storm had kept them awake in the night. Tired of being creatures-who-would-be-one alone. The tide was a long way out and the seabirds kept their distance. The air was warm and the beach offered up a bed by the dune. The creatures-who-would-be-one fell there. The sand shifted and all the world became a blur. The universe had arranged good things.

sleep, seep, deep, keep.

Head to head, knee to knee, fetal to fetal. From above they were heart-shaped. As they slept a circuit was formed. The sand shook as the ferry pulled away from the port. The turmoil in the water sent smaller and smaller waves to lick the shore. Grass and hair stirred in the breeze but, eventually, nothing else. It was as though the whole scene had been Rip-Van-Winkled. As though it were a beautiful postcard from the souvenir shop in heaven. It was not artifice. It was not a joke. For while they slumbered, the creatures-who-would-be-one... were.