This, now, for me, is living: thrown into the middle of Central America, taking in the sun-soaked morning, sitting at a shaded table on the outdoor balcony of a small town café sipping coffee, caressed by warm, gentle breezes, without a single obligation (consciously realized) or a pressing necessity to work, watching pretty girls occasionally wandering by, and just jotting thoughts that come to mind.  Oh, I suppose it could be better:  I could be laying upon a pristine Pacific beach, sunning, drinking daiquiris and otherwise doing the same—but that’s tomorrow.  Or I could be conspiratorially knocking down beers under a thatched-roofed, deep-shadowed, open-air cantina bullshitting with the local hombres—but that’s later tonight.  Then again, maybe not.  In fact, I’m sure I’m in just  the perfect spot to match the consciousness of the world at the moment .  And here’s the mantra of my quest: Have laptop, will travel.

I have given up hope of carnate love, in this time, this age—whether it should last but an evening or beyond the dearth of a kalpa of yet unborn worlds.  I’ve been ripped, stripped repetitively,  disrobed too methodically of the fabric of passion that shrouded me fervantly in desire’s shade.  I huddled in it like a feminine soul, investing faith in promises sweetly, earnestly made yet vacated as if they were from a world of borrowed, visiting life fleeing for the safe harbor of the recovering mother ship .  Piercing ardor rules no longer.  Snow has arrived to powder my desert.  And the houri of frozen ferocity has commanded me:  Thou shall not quetch of the cold in the kingdom of the lost.