I was wearing a brown, leopard-print, cat-suit overall that I must have picked up in a Melbourne op-shop, with nothing underneath. It's alien-technology velcrish straps cunningly crossed in the back to pull the whole thing into a unisex wasp-waist form that I hadn't had the body for for decades, or for lifetimes.
I reached into my pocket and pulled out a cowrie shell, which I gave to the driver. "Which way?" he asked. I said, "try up."
The g-forces pushed me toward the bottom of the craft as we rose, the youthful crowd parting for me like the Reed Sea when they saw my tightly fitting, leopard-print overall. In some way, the cat-suit was evidently functioning as a passport, but to where? The suit would be appropriate to few occasions or destinations.
Once, in Paumanok, I observed an older couple making love on the beach, and I knew that in their embrace were all the stars of the heavens, and endless continuity.
