My friend and I have just been sitting here talking about all kinds of things. I could listen to her tell stories for hours. Tonight, she was telling me about the time she took mescaline.

Walking thru the wooods, i saw all of nature pulsating. Beatiing to the rythym of life. All that was alive, i could see how it grew, and what made it whole.

I turn to look in his eyes, to see that he was hearing the same as me. Music fluttered and danced through the leaves of the trees as we walked. Without talking, we came to the agreement that we would follow the sound to see if it was real. As we came to the end of the woods, to and open park, there stood a man in a kilt playing bagpipes. A somber look as he played on with the fog slowly rising around his feet.

We sat there on the ground, in front of him, listening as he played. Hanging on every note, I heard the archaic sadness coming from his chest through the pipes.

He finished his song, and looked up to the sky, with a tear on his cheek. He came over to us and sat down as if he had been a friend. My husband shook hands with him, and complimented his playing. The old irishmen explained that his best friend had just passed, and he had just come from the services. Before his death, he had written a letter to his bachelor buddy that was to be read at his burial services. In it he asked his friend to go to the park and paly for him.

We continued mto tlak with him for many longs hours, never to forget the all the wisdom he flooded over our souls. next -- previous DISCLAIMER