In lieu of an abstract, below is the essay's first paragraph.
"It had been hot and dreary in the mountains the previous few days, but on this particular day, the humidity seemed intent on dragging down all which existed. The traveller, drops of sweat falling from the ridge of his brow, gazed skyward, hand shielding his eyes from the flickers of sunlight peeking through the relenting clouds. It had been days since his last meal; he had been sustaining himself with berries and the odd unfortunate jack rabbit which hopped across his path. To look at this man one would almost certainly be struck with the feeling of non-identity-a sense of misplacement which led one to believe that this man would not fit in anywhere; not in an office building, a prison cell, or a circus trailer. An odd aura of mystique and psychosis surrounded him, like a stone-hearted hit man given to spouting couplets of Chaucer from time to time. He did not know what his destination would be, but as he hiked further up the mountain path, a feeling not unlike a homecoming swept over him. He smiled to himself."
"The Meeting Of The Hands,"
The Angle: Vol. 1992
, Article 23.
Available at: https://fisherpub.sjfc.edu/angle/vol1992/iss1/23