the old man unhooked the fish, rebaited the line with another sardine and tossed it over. that old smell again. the return reminded him. felicidad no es un destino, es un m�todo. it had been thirty days. how many more he could not say. her picture in a locket, blown out and grainy as if enlarged and shrunk again. the handsome year. a trumpet player on the street, toting his son. music for money, money for living, living for what. the long return, may i change? reports of rain, not every day, what has become of my country? the cold exchange, blind shooting, a clean hole, ambulance window, mustve gone straight to his heart, whomever he is or was. laughter flies down the empty street on a motorcycle, a first time for everything. since the busride to tikal where i said goodbye since lying on the dock soaking in sun since noticing different lines changes in the skin on my face since then i have wanted to read this book, i have felt ready. benito juarez, mexican revolutionary and then president, hundreds of towns are his namesake, ill follow him tomorrow. a new way tomorrow, to smell pine needles again and dirt. nosebleeds and patios that are roofs, photographing strangers making phone calls on the corner. the aerial view. two opportunities to have this view, the third i will not pass up. not to regret. voy a regresar. until my time is done.