Press of humanity, relentlessly and unceasingly, day in and day out, in the morbid heat or in the beastly cold, on the streets or in the parks, in the bazaar or a residential ghetto, in the hills or on the beaches, saps the joy of living. Pandemonium without begets pandemonium within. Soul is stiflled. Unfailingly, year after year, after a time, I begin to yearn inconsolably, to escape to a corner of earth where I can easily fall into a delusion that the dawn, the dusk, the trees, the birds, the wind, the sky, the sea, the hills were created for me to behold. I spent a fortnight nurturing these illusions a week ago. Here's a link to the chronology of this journey. https://photos.app.goo.gl/fmg6GwPktGSaHd4Q7