It is amazing how much posthistory means to me. Day after day, it fills me with joy. No matter what is happening around the globe, it gives me hope. Yes, I feel no less than lucky to have posthistory close to my heart. Why do I refrain from writing about it, though? The reason is simple enough—I do not wish to spoil it by delving too deep into its prodigious wonders. For all my knowledge about the human species, tribal life is beyond my ken. The best I can do is write fiction about it. Which I do often enough so many years already. Chieftain Buroogu and Walai, the medicine man, are my witnesses. They represent posthistory to my taste, I am happy to report. Every so often, I join them in their bliss, but I refrain from referring to their disgraceful past as much as I can. History is best forgotten as fast as possible, I am convinced. And fiction is the best bet available to my fellow humans at this moment. Turbulent as it has ever been, it still offers some solace for the survivors of history. Simply put, Buroogu and Walai are my saviors. My protectors, as well. Without them, my life would make little sense, let alone gratification. Whence this piece of writing, which has come to me out of the blue. Cheerio!