There was once a taking off into the clouds, with a back to bickering guardian angels of despair and ignominy. The past, drowned in glass after glass of fine red wine, summer afternoons, blonde hair, and a famous signature. Drowned under deep waters, never to rise again. Or so he thought. Make no mistake, the waters boiled and simmered, oh they did. They did. They did!

A moving frontier of possibility and dissatisfactions, blurred by the scalding steam that rose up at last, against all predictions. Through sheer force of habit. But of course! Hope, all hope, evaporated on that blurred frontier.

And that, O Dhritarashtra, is the true measure of his shame.