Walking along by the river, Gods we’re singing in the butterscotch morn; my feet gliding on incense angels past funeral pyres, and the holy beast was everywhere that year as life and death played out its comic opera, I dodged the cows and dogs like Gene Kelly in Singing in the rain, and I found my place in the dusty old town and sat for my chai watching children playing , buses coming in , and going out to mysterious places down the road. I was with my family of man and returning I skated down that river back to my holy home for the next few precious days to come for it would never get any better than this.