Perhaps the next you hear from me I will be meditating among the stone Gods of Tamil Nadu.
Or blending with the air in the pavilion at the National Museum in Phnom Penh.
Or perhaps simply sipping wine, gazing out into the Mediterranean at Banyuls-sur-Mer.
Perhaps the years don’t scream back, only whisper trite assurances of a fading spire. Sunflowers wilt in black and gold nocturne; an image of future once-obscured, once-clear, now just faces of faces…veiled as if in riddle.
I saw people coming towards me, but all were the same man. All were me.