"Tibet" My hands slipped on the steep rock face, fingertips balancing delicately on the verge. I found footing and pressed forward, upward, moss giving way to white snow. The tired force of my legs propelled me into the thin, cool air. And when the sun was late in the sky, I came upon a ledge. And there was the old man, dressed in robes sitting, cross-legged, his eyes closed. I stood for a moment, stretching and catching my breath. Then in the fading light of the day I asked the question, a single word: "Please." And he replied: Imagine that your life is a poem, an esoteric point, that most may misunderstand. The difficult climb, your hands slipping, your lungs protesting the thinning air. Imagine that your function within the poem was to ask me that question, and having done so, that you are no longer relevant. That the very purpose of my own existence is to answer your question, and once answered, the poem will end. Imagine the mind of the poet, ordaining our fate before even picking up a pen, dictating our words, and yet allowing us in some cruel farce to believe we are free. Is that what you wanted to hear?