I Believe
by T. Lobsang Rampa
1977

On a far off sunny island which shall be nameless, although, indeed, it could be named for this is true, a Gentleman of Color stretched languorously beneath the ample shade of an age-old tree.

Lazily he put down the book which he was reading and reached up for a luscious fruit which was dangling enticingly nearby. With an idle movement he plucked the fruit, inspected it to see that it was free of insects, and then popped it in his capacious mouth.

'Gee,' he mumbled over the obstruction of the fruit. 'Gee, I sure doan know what this cat is getting at. I sure do wish I knew what he really believed.'

He stretched again and eased his back into a more comfortable position against the bole of the tree. Idly he swatted at a passing fly, missing he let his hand continue the motion and it idly picked up his book again.

'Life after death, astral travel, the Akashic Record.' The Gentleman of Color rifled through some pages. He wanted to get to the end of the stuff without the necessity of all the work involved in reading it word by word. He read a paragraph here, a sentence there, and then idly turned to another page. 'Gee,' he repeated. 'I wish I knew what he believed.'

But the sun was hot. The hum of the insects soporific.

Gradually the Gentleman of Color's head sank upon his chest. Slowly his dark fingers relaxed and the paperback book slithered from his nerveless hands and slid down to the gentle sand. The Gentleman of Color snored and snored, and was oblivious to all that went on about him in the mundane sphere of activity.