They fly over the settlements, looking for some sign that a more traditional approach would be welcomed, that they wouldn't wind up on skewers. But the only thing they record is a goat chained to a post and several dresses hung out to dry on a line that stretches between a hut in the south corner of the compound and a latrine in the center. This must, of course, be the result of poor planning. Or maybe there is some symbolism here that will take decades to decipher. Whatever the case may be, our patience is wearing thin. You can expect a certified letter announcing our decision. Though the decision itself isn't binding. It's like those superior parts of the self that don't wish to participate in the larger process. They hide away in their dark castles. And when finally they are called upon to serve whatever function it is they serve — to utter a word in Latin, to startle our closest friends with some vicious witticism borrowed from Heine — they balk. They begin sniveling and arguing in circles. Then demand to be left alone with their mastiffs, their aperitifs.