The sky is so old and indifferent to the prayers of the young and the old alike, my son, and its eyes are the coldest of blues, sharp-edged and cutting straight through. Despite what your mother has told you, in her headdress of feathers and her ridiculous robes, of American Indians and Buddhists and a guru wearing orange kafni in Prashanti Nilayam there are no chosen people the light blesses or for whom a time hangs like a rainbow on the horizon. The light spills on mosques and brothels, jail cells and retreats where initiates practise vipassana and time is a whore, gives itself to anyone who’ll pay the price, any time, no reservations. I hear you’ve quit school again, your mother’s machinations in play to spin your world with hers so you’ll discard your shoes and your perspective and imagine she has special knowledge in her cupped hands. But if you look close there’s not even a butterfly there, nothing as substantial as a Tally-Ho paper curled with the disappointment of being forgotten. What will you become my guitar playing, beach combing, thinking boy? Nothing so mundane, I hope, as one who thinks the sky put on her pretty robes to woo a special few. Just go back and get out your books, sit with friends at lunch times while the wind makes wrappers swirl, pull up your socks, fasten your top button, go chase a girl.