‘As for you, Massa self! You wan’ drink pito?’

‘I want to taste it. I understand one can get it real fresh around here. And I want to taste it. Haven’t drunk any before. Is it good? Does it make one drunk?’

‘Yes. Very good. No, ’e no make one drunk. Not too mus.’

.  .  .  .  .

There should be something said for open spaces. And yet what? Nothing. It should be possible that if one can see several miles out in front, into the distance, one should also be able to see into time. All this breeze. These clear skies. Fresh breezes should blow the nonsense from our souls, the stupidities from our minds and lift the veils off our eyes. But it’s not like that. It’s never been like that. There are as many cramped souls around here as there are among the dwellers down there. In the thick woods and on the beaches. Like everyone else, those poets were wrong. They lied. But Zirigu is alright. And so is his wife, the Mother. They are alright, like all of us. Alright. I only hope that one day, they will learn that we are all the same.