A crafty fugitive, the first fetter I shed was my watch. But there are so many fetters that cling to my body and mind. And soul. Too many, way too many. My chances are slim. Barely free, I remain a shade ahead of a mean slave. And a shade closer to almost certain punishment I cannot even fathom, let alone flee. For slavery has taken thousands of years to reach its present splendor, while I am reduced to my own wits. The fickle wits of a fretful fugitive.

Addendum (March 7, 2018)

Wonderful, this. Crafty though I surely was from the first day of my early retirement, it still took me many years to reach liberation (”On Liberation,” October 4, 2017). As for the punishment, it came quickly enough (”Welcome to Motovun!” November 13, 2008). Slavery is so cleverly concealed by now that it startles the innocent out of their reveries when they least expect it. As for the fetters, the last one I managed to shed was thought (”No-Bullshit Enlightenment,” January 18, 2016). Yes, thought. And it was the toughest fetter of all. Slavery incarnate, no less.