Echo of Honor

It ran all night, no intentions of stopping, no desire worth clinging to; madness was not looking too bad.

It began with the monks. Tibet was another world, truly a different dimension. Back home, hearing the parrots cackle and shout at three in the morning. Bats, they come if you sing. A whistle, and a lizard is your friend.

The monks - no judgement, only duty and honor. A duty to forgive, but most of all to learn; to learn by living. They breed life through the gardening. They give back to it, as we all will, when we all die. Our last breath is a gift; one last song heard through its echo, or another hurricane stimulant thousands of miles away.

They harmed no one.

Damn. Madness. Nothing shocks me anymore.