Ill own up: there was no last, elusive quarry, driving us south south south. To all my readers, I should like to make this naked breasted admission: while Ayooba Shaheed Farooq were unable to distinguish between chasing after and running from, the buddha knew what he was doing. Although Im well aware that I am providing any future commentators or venom quilled critics (to whom I say: twice before, Ive been subjected to snake poison; on both occasions, I proved stronger than venenes) with yet more ammunition through admission of guilt, revelation of moral turpitude, proof of coward ice Im bound to say that he, the buddha, finally incapable of continuing in the submissive performance of his duty, took to his heels and fled. Infected by the soul chewing maggots of pessimism futility shame, he deserted, into the historyless anonymity of rain forests, dragging three children in his wake. What I hope to immortalize in pickles as well as words: that condition of the spirit in which the consequences of acceptance could not be denied, in which an overdose of reality gave birth to a miasmic longing for flight into the safety of dreams… But the jungle, like all refuges, was entirely other was both less and more than he had expected.

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