The year is ending, the human is soon to drag me back to the antipodes, and I've finally taken advantage of having guests for a few days to visit the Iles de Frioul, off Marseille. All in all an appropriate context for an appointment with destiny...My human consorts were for some reason terribly excited by a local detective novel whose final showdown occurs during a whiskey-filled picnic on the same island; I should never have let them visit most of the bars where its early stages are played out.
So excited were they that I had to beg them to photograph me in front of what I hold to be conclusive proof of the antique dignity of my race: the Hipposphinx.
Just wait, humans, until its slow thighs get moving, and you get caught in a gaze as blank and pitiless as the Provençal sun...a rough beast indeed!
For once, I concede, Yeats may have been right.
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