No shadow of a doubt: an acceleration is taking place. Rip crunch crack while road surfaces split in the awesome heat, I, too, am being hurried towards disintegration. What gnaws on bones (which, as I have been regularly obliged to explain to the too many women around me, is far beyond the powers of medicine men to discern, much less to cure) will not be denied for long; and still so much remains to be told… Uncle Mustapha is growing inside me, and the pout of Parvati the witch; a certain lock of heros hair is waiting in the wings; and also a labour of thirteen days, and history as an analogue of a prime ministers hair style; there is to be treason, and fare dodging, and the scent (wafting on breezes heavy with the ululations of widows) of something frying in an iron skillet… so that I, too, am forced to accelerate, to make a wild dash for the finishing line; before memory cracks beyond hope of re assembly, I must breast the tape. (Although already, already there are fadings, and gaps; it will be necessary to improvise on occasion.)

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