"Can you hear the drums, Fernando?" All of a sudden, all the smartphones of all the pedestrians ring at the same time. The ringtone reminds them of the Mexican Revolution, a photograph of General Zapata with his famous handlebar moustache, holding a sword in one hand & a rifle in the other, & liberty behind a thick scrim of smoke. Yangon, at once, turns himself into a deaf yogi with a necklace — with a picture of the Lord Buddha’s molar relic emitting yellow lights, clanking at his throat. Yangon is street-smart. Yangon is a coyote,  a survivor from the dawn of history. He lives off rotten flesh & blood of the monarchs he once served. He licks off ashes of the bones of historical epochs. In times of revolution, he makes a modest living printing flags. He will ignore the discoloured reds on the streets of the fallen masses. Sometimes Yangon is a saviour. With his huge pearly penis, he will deflower the underaged slum. He has put a girl with thanaka on her cheeks on a rough patch. Yangon is full of remorse sometimes. Like a taxidermized stag, gazing at the heavens with blank eyes, Yangon gazes at the deepest layers of infinity. Yangon knows too well how trivia live in the deepest strata of life. At that depth, the meaning of life comprises bioluminescent jellyfish, breathtakingly beautiful bluish-green seaweed & a mouthful of a whale whose mouth is as big as the cosmos. Yangon, aka the End of Strife, has not reached the end of strife. In fact Yangon has fallen in love with Adversary. Even when the galloping of horses who are going to arrest him was around the corner, he was in lust, sucking his lover’s nipples. Yangon has killed his own lover. Yangon, having set his watch half an hour faster than the standard time, has to wait for the hangmen at the gallows. A week ago Yangon discovered his stolen smartphone at a thiefspawn in Mogul Street. He turned on the phone, & gawked at his family photo wallpaper gradually appear on the screen cracks.