"Pardon me if I disappear in Mexico, wearing a mask and strange suspenders. Puncho Villa. Wandering about, speaking my curious 'spagnol. The trees are coming down, we'll to the woods no more, mad mind and black sun. We'd better find an island quick."
Good luck finding one. If it's worth being there it's been exploited by Mickey Mammon and overrun by vacationers fleeing from their cubicles, like a yo-yo flees the controlling hand, taking pictures of each other pretending to be free at 24% compound interest. A dancing marionette, and every step the puppeteer's.
And the mad mind -- the madness creeping through the cracks in the woodwork, under window sills and door jambs like black blizzard dust bowl silt, until you choke on it. There's no where to go to.
I try to avoid their eyes, hoping I won't have to hear the mad voices, flee the demon words no one can exorcise: don't you agree, don't you agree, aren't we buddies in delusion, nodding together in unhinged harmony, yearning to breathe free? Do what thou wilt! And drink the tea.
The trees are coming down, the woods decay and fall, hosanna turns to brown and withered leaves; every crumb of satori and all our moments that glow in quiet glory. There's a string at the end of it all and its sharp tug and a strong hand to guide us to the door.