He sat in the verandah of the bungalow on the hilltop huddled in his leather jacket against the icy winds blowing down from the eternal snows. A full moon raged on the pinnacle of Kinnaur Kailash. Swirling clouds cast their diaphanous veil over the surrounding peaks, while the valleys were bathed in brilliant moonlight. It fell on the slate rooves of the houses standing on the terraced slopes of the village of Kalpa. Hundreds of prayer flags fluttered in the preternatural light. The lonesome toll of a bell ascended to his ears from some temple standing cloaked in the darkness of the slopes below. The man sat still, a graven image in the moonlight. Recollections of the past few days rose like white breakers on a dark sea of consciousness. A sea which dwelt on the absolute present with no before or after. He had longed to move away from the relentless reality of Jekyll. The conditioned responses, the predictable days, the inexorable goosestep of the world marching to some monocausal destination, while Hyde, his resident duende, rocked back and forth in irreconcilable grief. It is only sometimes that the duende broke into a mirthless cackle of delight watching the predicament of Jekyll, unable to find his Hyde.