You accepted a generic tribal tattoo - oh, sorry, tatau - without complaint. The merciless branches, the horrific, alien tropical landscape buffeted you carelessly, and I felt your pain. You ran with the terror of a hunted animal through jewel-green foliage, the whip-sting of gunfire chasing your heels, and I sat on the edge of my seat. Your security blanket - the militaristic elder brother who was going to make everything OK - died with a sanguine gurgle under your hands. I was with you in the beginning: You were a callow youth who quailed at the sight of blood, rich tropical vistas blurring to the rhythm of your panicked breath.
This thing you've been doing, it's gotten out of control.
