We discussed the failure, the non-glamour of the cul-de-sac that is a life spent following a linear path. We discussed how a friend had his debts cancelled, was given the freedom to live in the here and now but at a terrible price that none of us, however burdened, wanted to pay. All the while, a fly buzzed around the room. I could see wild poppies in the fields beyond the window. The master recited some lines of poetry from memory. He stood on one leg and held a bare foot in his hand. 'Maybe', he said, 'this uncertainty, this... anxiety is just how things are...' The fly kept buzzing arabesques around the room. No-one seemed to notice it. We talked of beeswax, thread and bones. Ideas set down in the sacred, protective circles that the master had created. The grass in the fields started to roll. The poppies swayed. The weather, all out of kilter with the season as if anticipating what was coming next.