Well, it's a pretty interesting story how it happened, and an exciting conclusion to my travel journals - I finally got the backpack back, and turns out the guy was me, five years into the future, and it was an honest mistake, so I felt bad about the sound thrashing I delivered in a fit of pique, but I guess I'll pay for it later - but, before I explain the whole thing, I'd like to discuss literature and social context.
It can be defended that the content of a written piece follows the form of the culture into which it is introduced. Therefore, this bit of writing is self-referential, lacks vital information, and contains hyperlinks.
Time-travel retribution in response to my thrashing?
The sudden revelation of a Luddite plot, and my helicopter-based escape?
The reality-bending intervention of probably-disbanded Icelandic pop band The Sugar Cubes?
A lonely tuba player, weaving out her tragic melodies in the middle of the Serengeti?
..or perhaps it was...