Pick your poison; choose your mix. There is meat, prepare the dip. Two glasses please, and a jar of cold water. There’s ice inside the cooler, you might forget. [You always do].
This will not end well.
June’s sun is always drowsy, hiding behind the gray clouds every six in the morning. She sends the wind towards my window to signal the curtains to fly (or at least — the attempt). The intention has always been the same: that morning will always mourn over the passing of night; will always agitate over the arrival of afternoon.
“There are cages for one and for several birds. Adoum explains that in one-bird cages a little mirror is placed inside so the birds won’t know they are alone.
Later, at lunch, Guaysamin talks about New York. He says he has seen men there drink by themselves at counters. That behind the row of bottles there is a mirror and sometimes, late at night, the men throw their glasses and the mirror shatters to bits.”
[Eduardo Galeano, Days and Nights of Love and War]