There is a beach. One day a beautiful woman took me to this beach. We took a long bus ride from the city. We walked through a grove of tall pine trees. The tide was out and the wind was in from offshore. Rags of fog raced in - only a few metres over the surf and sand under a bright blue sky. Whenever the fog hugged us and hid us from the crowd, she would take my hand and smile.
Later, we walked along a dusty road a few klicks inland from the ocean. There was a temple, 1600 years old or so, with bodhisatvas carved into the cliff rock. The temple was on a low hill connected by a saddle of ground to a higher hill. The higher hill had missiles on it. There were pillboxes by the pathways. There were signs for land mines. There were signs expressly forbidding photography.
One of the monks greeted us and asked if we wanted him to take our picture. We pointed to the sign. He shrugged.
"Out there they have their rules; in here we have ours."
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