And I have no fear. Connected am I to the other wanderers. On dark hidden islands where the wind blows through the purple sky darkening the palm trees, they sit in their bamboo cabins and look out at the ocean, or sometimes the sea, and live. On these islands, death is very close; it's a set of tracks in the jungle not made by any animal, or a floating, black robe bobbing in the ocean that visits the rocks and then floats on silently. But it is no cause for concern; this is what the islands are. My friends keep their same rhythm; the one that played in their hearts when they were born. They lie back and listen to the screams of the birds and the flutes of the mind. Light some incense and let the smoke fill the cabin. Move the spyglass and reach for the parchment. Now our minds are close since we seek the same thing. Does that make us the same person? It isn't clear, exactly. But we are on the same journey. My brother is a comfortable distance from death, he can look out and see it in the sky, blowing through the trees. It's evening on the island now. He can lean back in his cabin and smile. He knows of the grey clouds gathering over the island without needing to look. He just needs to sigh and breathe in the incense.