Of my fatherland and my friends I have little to say. Perhaps the length of years I have lived, now sixty-one, have motivated me if not obsessed me, from the one to travel the world and find its mysteries, and alienated me from the other, for few can I find to trust, befriend, without self-interest at every corner, and at my expense.

I have thought a suitable hypothesis might befit this story-in some instances, thus not much, lest the hard to believe tale I have to tell should be considered: a crazed and unfinished account of my imagination, more so than a constructive experience of my mind and its reality, to which daydream or fantasy might form: henceforth, I wish to nullify that right here and now.

From the small and concrete airport of Guam (in the summer of 1999), I was halfway around the world on a voyage to Java, to see Borobudur, the old Buddhist ruins, in Indonesia, constructed from some two-million volcanic stone blocks. The jet landed in Bali, it was a kind of nervous restless flight that haunted me, as if I had witnessed a fiend from my port window, cape and all, with a huge snake around its neck, and its long thick body, hung along the ghost’s abdominal. woking taxi service

The plane I took from Bali to Java was a beautiful old looking heap, with four propellers, and only two rows of seats, each on one side of the belly of the plane, it was, or appeared to be freighted with supplies of some kind, the back seats of the plane were taken out, used for stowage of boxes upon boxes, with signs ‘fragile,’ on them, and the name of several brands of whiskey, which I had not noticed at first, but did when I went to the restrooms, prior to take off.

Once in the air, the ride was a tinge clumsy at first; I even held my breath as we ascended through some clouds and encircling winds.

It was near-evening when we took off, and it was remarkable, that the heavy loaded plane got off the ground in the first place, as well for the colors of twilight seeping into dark, and out of daylight. Attentively I watched it, until sunset disappeared, to a fine strip of a mist.

The moon was a dusty orange, with a peculiar cloud, or shadow of charcoal, likened to that figure I saw on my flight from Guam to Bali, then when I blinked my eyes, and zoomed back to get a second glance, it underwent a rapid change, and the moon seemed transparent-as if I could see through it.

The air in the plane became hot and muggy, not intolerable, just steamy hot. It seemed the wind I had noticed outside the plane was gone, died and went away, or else we, in the plane, left it behind us.