We stopped to rest on a ledge looking to the east, and lit
our pipes with good apple tobacco. Harry raised the
epistemology issue again, and our rest became too long. We
restuffed our pipes as the sun circled the Earth. Or, as
Harry put it, as the Earth circled the sun. The only thing
we agree on is what makes for a good tobacco.

When we reached the temple, the sun/Earth had already set,
and the priests gave us a room to wait for the next day. We
would meet the prophet at sunrise. This was fine by us, for
it gave us time to eat our packed meal: bread, cheese, and
apples. And to finish our discussion. We never, ever rush.
This is our way. We were arguing about the origin of the
Self, and Harry started to nod off. I covered him with his
cloak, kissed his white hair, and lay myself to sleep.

I woke up as they were stabbing him, and he was calling my
name. They dragged me to the prophet, who criticized me
severely. How could a wise man like myself, she said, keep
the company of losers like Harry? Was he dead, I asked? Yes,
said the prophet, finally. I unsheathed my dagger, and cut
her throat. Then, I cut my own. Mission accomplished, sweet
Harry! The last three keepers of orthodoxy died together
that day, as the sun and the Earth greeted each other like
old friends. From whence comes the Self? From wherever the
fuck you want it to, my friend.