Final Form

Papa Jag is somewhere in the tall grass where avian sirens can not give him away. Terrible things are soon to follow. It doesn't matter if you are doing your laundry by the river bank or at a safe distance within the gates. Nature awards property rights according to bite force. Everything else after that becomes the permission slip of a hood ornament. A loveless beast can not be induced with compassion, so please do not try to move my heart by speaking about your children or the place you hold in the community. I can not prevent the machinations of an empty belly anymore than you can. Relocation does not work anymore. Will you put the keeper of jungles in some prairie zoo? Sanctuaries are good for binding the weaponry of tooth and claw, but can do nothing to stay the spiritual meandering of peyote smoke. Your shamans will run two weeks before your farmers do. A turtle shell is no more than a pistachio nut. Caiman skulls are crackers. Oh, and he swims like a gold medalist. So any irrigated mote situation will just provide a moment of recreation before village trauma. Count your prayer beads in meditation. Perform a fast. Give back stolen wages. Put murder far away from you and he will still rend your young ones. He will shred your elders into ribbons. Contrition is no more than street magic on the day of judgement. The time repayment will slumber no more. Justice is not reform. It is a tally.