My little stories about chieftain Buroogu and his world are likely to be misplaced in time and maybe even space. In truth, they are nothing but science fiction.

Addendum (December 7, 2016)

At the risk of belaboring this haiku, which is like explaining a joke, I relish my stories about chieftain Buroogu precisely because they depict a world worth longing for well in advance. After all the horrors that will pile up by the end of this century, and after centuries of fumbling in ever greater darkness, the human species will eventually return to its origin. Posthistory, that is. It is the mirror of prehistory, which is forgotten by now, but which is far from unfathomable after years of scientific research (“Prehistory, Posthistory,” February 14, 2012). This is where fiction comes in, and stories are at the very root of all fiction. Enough, though. Chieftain Buroogu is my witness.