He ran away from his problems and ended up on an island. But soon he discovered that even an island could not detach him from his troubles. The disturbance within would ebb and flow. He often sat on the shore enthralled by waves crashing onto the sandy beach but ineluctably disappointed by the receding tide. Soon he grew bored with the beach and its fickle waves. He would find new distractions, always ending up worse than before. He searched for peace in the seclusion of wilderness and sat for years in pure stillness. Alas, he could not stand repressive serenity. Three years passed and he was ill-equipped to cope with himself. He abandoned nature and returned to sensuality.
They told him not to fritter his time away, not to idolize the pondering wanderer. But he did. He loved to wander - not to know where he was going, or when he would get there. He loved the distractions of the island, its slow deliberate pace. He loved the cabana boys who slaved for his enjoyment. But they did not love him. They loathed how his meaningless decadence. They loathed his lecherous gaze and despised his overt predation. One day, he was found strangled, with a half-full pina colada in his right hand.
