Tuas, the westernmost tip of Singapore. The driver had acted like I was a criminal who was going to swim to Malaysia. The field made of bulldozed stones, a fence and a hill. Below, a road extending into the Strait of Johor, a line of gray over sunset-colored water.

 In manus tuas commendo spiritum meum. The phrase popped up when I googled Tuas. Into your hands I entrust my spirit. Synchronistic. 

The sun was a meditation. 

In the fading light, I headed back; no phone in a place with no cars. An old man on the road, probably Indian. Barefoot, only a cloth around his waist. Noble. “Where are you from?” “America” “Is it true you have sex in the streets?”