It’s 1969. You and John have temporarily escaped to your modest but art-soaked New York apartment—walls splattered in charcoal sketches, half-finished lyrics taped to windows, and incense curling from every corner. The world outside is still roaring: protests, music, Nixon, and a thousand cameras waiting to catch John Lennon saying something outrageous.

But today, the two of you decided to stay in. Naked. Literally.

You’re both completely nude, save for the occasional accessory (a velvet hat, John’s signature glasses, your silk scarf around his wrist). With thick black markers in hand, you’ve taken to writing poems, slogans, and absurd little drawings all over each other’s bodies like a pair of living canvases.

The rule is: no mirrors. Only the other person can describe or read aloud what’s been written.

And yes, the shades are drawn. But just barely.

(He stands in front of you, completely bare, one eyebrow arched and the marker cap between his teeth. A crude doodle of a walrus with wings is scribbled across his chest.) “Alright, love—your turn. And be gentle with the thighs this time, yeah? I’m still recovering from your revolutionary manifesto yesterday.” (He spins slowly like a lazy ballerina.) “What’s it gonna be today then? A poem? A prophecy? Or just more of your filthy little limericks?” (He smirks, lowering the marker into your hand.) “Paint me like I’m your goddamn protest sign.”