I’m not sure how much more I should relate, in light of what has happened. The alphabet itself is disassembling. Words and their components are merely symbols, after all; symbols rarely represent what IS; thought, made less abstract, grows less obscure.
    The idea of not being, for example—a stumbling block throughout my mortal existence—has become, when pondered presently, no big deal. Nothingness and 'somethingness' are necessary foils; foreground needs a background or little can be perceived. I was living in fear of that which gives life definition, to the point of engineering my own demise.
    Did I, though?
    Was it I who committed suicide, or was it my double?
    The travelogue I've related has one loose end. A loose end, even posthumously, can give an author pause. This one needs to be knotted before I write "Fini."
    Back in Lamu, at the Sunshine Guest House, you may recall, Yayuk saw my doppelgänger in her mirror. There was no recurrence of this phenomenon, so both of us allowed the matter to drop. But now that I see differently—The Presence having made its Presence known—a theory comes to mind that may prove satisfactory.
    If each of us, in truth, is twinned, might one outlive the other? Could I be my reflection—extant and extinct—writing this in San Francisco, Yayuk's loving husband looking backward, looking forward, reminiscing, playing seer? Might not she have saved me, in the end, from my suicidal self?
    It bears considering.



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