There were places to go in the hinterland. Temples in Moscow to see. All sorts of commotion. Out West, down a dirt driveway he’d parked in once, an old brown rusty thermal swimming pool to swim and relax in. All those monkeys. A shoebox, a complete worldwide zoo of chatter, full of noises and sounds and flies buzzing. There was of course Joyce, a noise-maker par excellence. Well, the Burmese position is a semi-stable one, and well-suited to a chap like him. And, hell, he’d been trained by training’s best, a good solid guy from Long Island who’d tripped a hundred times before taking his vows. Anything in this vacant world is possible now. Even as he’d had a shot with a ball last night and from an impossible distance watched it go downcourt and make an imperceptible swoosh which through the net he did not see. There was only the silence of the aftermath and him standing and all the other people around just being people around being people, and him just standing there. Picture living the lucid life of that when prodded by the sun’s little paws at dawn he wakes from his nightly sleep.